


sunshine riptide

by difficultheart



Category: Legion (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Canon has been taken out back and shot, Delusions/Hallucinations, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mutant!OC/Reader, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person, Psychic Abilities, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, discussion of trauma, no beta we die like men, non-canon compliant, this is so self-indulgent tbh, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 86,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26280334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/difficultheart/pseuds/difficultheart
Summary: The gentle pull of a tide that rolls over and over again and by the sheer nature of its essence it becomes an indestructible will- ripping out sand- eroding what was before it- without a care… a transformational monster-becoming the madness and frenzy of a truly bulletproof wave... - pwbucky barnes approaches a mutant with psychic abilities who attends his group therapy sessions, hoping to dig out the last remnants of hydra and the weapon they made him. but in the mind, there are no secrets, and she has shadows of her own that threaten to devour her whole.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 34
Kudos: 124





	1. White Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: some ableist language
> 
> _And if you go chasing rabbits_  
>  _And you know you're going to fall..._

Group therapy was, you thought, a new and enhanced form of torture. Sure, your regular therapist said that it was the next step in your treatment, in getting what you needed. But this was the same guy who thought that finding inner peace and living your best life was the best form of revenge. So clearly, he didn’t know shit. But he was the only therapist who would take your case in a fifty mile radius from your home, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was better to tolerate his patient, monotone bullshit than to deal with the consequences of going unmedicated. So long as you did what he wanted and did your best to play along, you got the pills that helped you keep even, that helped you function.

Once a week, you showed up to the basement of a Presbyterian church in the city and sat for an hour in a room full of people whose minds screamed endlessly. A support group for people who had gone through violent traumas, struggled with the after effects of it, the nightmares that happened during waking hours. The unspoken thing, the one that didn’t get put into the title of the group, in any official materials, was that the traumas were related to superpowers. People traumatized by their own powers, people hurt by those with them… A mixed bag, a room full of half-aliens and mutants and lab rats and normal people who had that normalcy violently stripped from their lives.

A room full of people like you. Your worst goddamn nightmare. Looping memories, intrusive thoughts, flashing images that you tried desperately to block out. Whispered judgements, somehow worse than the screaming.

_Broken, broken, broken, all so broken, little toy soldiers lined up and—_

“Andromeda.”

Your name, spoken sharply by the middle-aged woman who ran the therapy sessions. Too kind, too pitying. It made you want to vomit. Handling all of you with little kid gloves, like the slightest jostle could open up too many wounds and flood the room with blood and viscera. Shutting out the rush of words that had flooded your mind, you glanced up at her, hands shoved in the pockets of your hoodie.

“Yeah?” you mumbled, sinking further down in your plastic chair.

“You’ve been with us for almost two months now but haven’t shared anything,” she said, legs crossed and manicured nails tapping against the clipboard on her lap. _Need to know, need to have the breakthrough._ Words she wouldn’t say. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”

“I’m good.”

_Difficult. Deflecting. Has to put in the work._

“Andromeda,” she said, in the quiet little voice that you hated. Like you were fragile, seconds away from falling apart if the wrong thing was said. “You’ve listened to everyone else’s stories. Why don’t you share a little of your own? Just whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Not everyone else. There was another new person in the group, like you. Only his third session, but his mind was the worst. A constant barrage of gunfire and explosions, thoughts a jumbled mess of English and Russian. In a couple of weeks, maybe he’d have her on his ass to share, too. When you glanced over at him, you caught him staring, grey eyes widening slightly before he let his gaze drop to the floor.

 _Caught,_ his mind echoed loudly.

“Fine.” Heaving a sigh, you sat up in your chair, brushed back your hood. _Blue, blue, blue,_ a chorus of voices as a dozen eyes stared at your dyed hair. _Needs to touch up the roots,_ one voice whispered, your jaw clenching. “My ex thought that taking my pills dampened my ‘natural gifts’ and convinced me to stop taking them. Something… happened. I had a meltdown, destroyed the house. Hurt both of us. The doctors thought I might have had a psychotic break. Delusions, since I stopped taking the medicine on my own. I moved. Found a new job. Got on my meds again.”

_Crazy. Schizo. Hurt us hurt all of us. Mutant. Poor thing. Never should have shared. Should have stayed quiet. Dangerous._

This was why you had stayed silent in group for so long. Too many voices, all whispering about you. Thinking about you. You slumped back in your chair, stretched your legs out in front of you and took a deep breath.

“I see,” the therapist said. Taking down her notes, reminding herself to take another look at your file. She didn’t see. “And what are these gifts? Have they hurt you before? Been the cause of your delusions?”

“… The usual gamut of psychic bullshit. Telepathy, mostly.” You shifted in your chair, squeezing your eyes shut and forcing yourself to stop listening to the sudden flood of noise in your mind.

“And this has been confirmed?”

_Might be part of the schizoaffective disorder. Hallucinations. Delusions._

“No. Not exactly a handy little test to figure out every ‘gift’ a kid might have. But I ripped the house apart piece by piece and set it on fire with my mind. So…” You shrugged. “Closest you can get.”

“Have you confronted the reason for this meltdown? Talked to anyone who was involved?” she asked. “Like the others here, I think that finding some closure could—”

“I shared. Like you asked.” You pulled your hood back up and looked away. “I’m done.”

“Andromeda—” God, you hated that name. A reminder of the father who gave you up, left, abandoned you. “—I’ll let you stop for today. But I think that you should share more in future sessions. We’re all here to learn from one another. Lily, weren’t you also caught in a house fire?”

Lily was one of the quiet ones, who participated when asked but also kept her screaming, horrified thoughts mostly to herself. A nice change of pace, compared to some of the others. 30% of her body had been burned, but she was one whose pain you had mostly been spared from. She gave a small, solemn nod of acknowledgement, long hair pulled over the right side of her face to hide the scars there. Tuning out whatever the therapist was trying to do to link your meltdown to her own pyrokinesis backfiring on her in a moment of fear and panic, you closed your eyes and blocked out the rush of whispering voices in your head. There wasn’t much time left in the session, your agitated fidgeting all you could do to help pass the few minutes that remained. You were ready for the end of this torture session, just wanted to go home, order a pizza, and do your best to forget the few memories that being around these people had pulled from the corners of your psyche.

“That’s the end of our time together for tonight.” The therapist uncrossed her legs, looked around at the circle of damaged people sitting in shitty plastic chairs with a well-practiced smile. “Remember to work on what we talked about tonight, and come in next week ready to share.”

Not once had you worked on anything she’d suggested to the group. Meditation and finding a peaceful place and taking up constructive hobbies were all probably helpful things. Things that maybe could have helped you. But you weren’t interested in the mindfulness that she preached, in letting go and living better. You simply needed to function, nothing more and nothing less. Picking up your messenger bag from the floor next to you, you stood up and kept your head down as you slung it on and walked as quickly as you could towards the door. Some of the group lingered after the end of the session, made plans and talked to each other. Good things, you were sure. But you weren’t interested in friends or contacts or having to be around them for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

Maybe that made you a bad person, a bad patient. But you’d never been particularly interested in being good. Surviving was the important part.

You made it all the way up the stairs, through the vestibule, out the door before you heard it.

_Торопиться. Быстро. Придется наверстать упущенное. Have to—_

“Hey. Hey!”

Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes. The new guy, the one you’d caught staring. Reminding yourself to be patient, that you’d likely have to see him once a week for at least a few more months and you didn’t need to make group therapy any more awkward than it already was, you turned.

“Hey.” You frowned as the door swung shut behind him, his breath caught in his chest.

Why had he been in such a hurry to catch up with you?

“An…Andromeda, right?” he asked. A rasping voice, Brooklyn accent. The same as his thoughts, if pitched slightly deeper.

“Yeah.” You shoved your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, eyes narrowed as you looked up at him. “What do you want?”

A bit brutal, a bit too much to the point. But you were in one of your moods, felt a bit peeled open, a bit raw after sharing even such a small bit of yourself. Thankfully, he didn’t seem insulted.

“Uh.” He cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. Nervous. “Back there, in group. You… you said that you have a gift.”

“That’s the phrase they tell us to use. More constructive.” You watched him, held yourself back from probing into his head to figure out what he wanted. If you did that, if you dug in without permission, you were no better than— “Look, if you’re here to ask me to wipe your memories or whatever, you’re not the first and I don’t do that.”

“No, I’m not—”

“And I’m not going to try to get in touch with your dead grandma either.”

“That’s not—Look, I’m not here to… to ask you to do any of that.” He sighed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “I just… I have something else to ask you. If you’re ok with that. But it’s better to not… talk about it here.”

He glanced around the parking lot, expression pinched. Paranoid. With that, and the few things his mind had projected to yours, you were guessing he was a veteran. Maybe one deployed during some big superpower blow up. New York, maybe. Or around for when the UN had been attacked. Terrible things, traumatizing things. And while you could feel some sympathy for that, you weren’t willing to give up your hard-won isolation and tranquility. Not for a stranger from your group therapy, even if he was a little cute.

“Are you trying to hit on me?” you asked, taking a step closer and frowning. “Because you’re doing a terrible job, dude.”

“What? No. I—”

“Look, I don’t even know your name, man. And I’m not into this whole… group thing. If you want to go on a date with someone who seems to have the same damage as you, I’m sure there are other people in there who would be happy to indulge you. But it’s not my thing.” You watched his face flush in mortification, wishing you could feel some satisfaction from it. But honestly, you just felt… bad. “Get home safe, yeah?”

“Wait.” When you tried to step around him, he moved into your path. “I… My name is Bucky. Bucky Barnes. I swear I’m not trying to hit on you or anything. If you want to go, I’m… not gonna stop you. But I have something I wanna ask you. And I can wait until next week if I need to.”

Although you wanted to be annoyed, you grudgingly had to admit that you kind of respected how ballsy it was for him to be trying to push the issue. Especially after you’d admitted to ripping apart a house piece by piece with nothing but your mind.

“Well… Bucky.” You shifted back, placed your hands on your hips. “Kudos for introducing yourself at the end of the conversation. If you really want to ask your question, hold onto it. I’ll consider answering it next week.”

“I… Okay.” Although he didn’t look completely satisfied by the answer, he moved out of your way. Adjusted the glove he wore on one hand, stared down at the ground. “Next week, then.”

_Great job, Barnes. Real smooth. What the hell is wrong with—_

Abruptly, you shut out his thoughts, not wanting to hear any further. The tone was too scathing, a private thing that you didn’t want to butt into. Pulling your keys out from your bag, you started to walk past him, but paused. There was something just at the corner of his thoughts you’d picked up on, like a shadow that could only be seen out of the corner of your eye, gone when you turned your head. Although you’d put up a wall between your mind and his, purposely shut him out so you couldn’t listen to him beat himself up for being bad at talking to a girl, that shadow was still there. A thing you weren’t entirely sure he was conscious of.

_Interesting._

“Next week,” you said, not bothering to look back at him as you unlocked your car.

When you had pulled out of the parking spot, started to turn onto the street, you risked a glance in your rearview mirror. Bucky Barnes was still standing there, hands in his pockets, head hung like a kicked puppy. But you could have sworn, for just one second, that he looked terribly and frighteningly familiar.

Just a side effect, you tried to rationalize. You were due for your evening doses, the morning ones slowly wearing away. It was just your brain being irrational, just one of the fake puzzle pieces it liked to conjure up to make a world ruled by chaos more organized, more logical. Once you got home, once you stuffed yourself with food and took your pills, you would sort it all out. All you needed was to be on an even keel again, that’s all.

But the image still lingered, terrible and real and unshakeable. There was _something_ about Bucky Barnes, and you couldn’t write it off as a delusion.

\---

“Why blue?”

You looked up, dumping another little pod of cheap creamer into your cup of coffee. The stuff they provided at group was terrible, but it was free, and if you dumped enough sugar and creamer into it, it was almost tolerable. Bucky Barnes had managed to sneak up next to you, pouring some of the oily coffee into his own cheap paper cup.

“What?” you asked, grabbing a handful of artificial sweeteners.

Maybe it was because you’d gotten no sleep the night before, crunched to get bugs fixed in a program you’d been working on for months. But you could not understand what the hell he was trying to ask you.

“The hair.” He motioned vaguely towards your head, the wavy mess that was your hair. “Why blue?”

“Oh.” Duh. Between your lack of sleep and the mind-numbing hour of group therapy you’d just gotten through, your brain seemed to be about fifteen steps behind. “A couple of the people who raised me as a kid had blue fur.”

“Wait, what?” Now it was Bucky’s turn to look confused, staring at you as he blindly put the pot back down. “Are you—”

“Mostly joking.” A truth hidden within a lie, an absurdity that people who hadn’t been part of your childhood wouldn’t get. “I just like the color blue.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t bought it. His thoughts were still preoccupied, trying to puzzle out how someone could be _covered in blue fur._ Clearly not someone who had much experience with mutants. “Okay.”

“Was that your question? Because if so, that’s pretty anti-climactic.” You snorted, sipping at the coffee and wincing. Not enough sugar or creamer, unfortunately. But you needed the caffeine boost to wake you up enough for the half hour drive home. “A whole week just to ask me about my hair?”

“No, that’s—” _Nat said to start with small talk, knew I shouldn’t have trusted her advice—_ “That’s not my question.”

“Well, then, what is it?” You leaned against the table, chugging the terrible coffee. “No offense, but I’ve got a project that I need to finish up, and I haven’t slept in 48 hours. Time’s not something I have a lot of right now.”

“I…” He trailed off, sharp eyes tracking the movement of the others, paranoia bubbling back up and making you nauseous. “I know you said you don’t have a whole lot of time. But if it’s not too much, let me get you a coffee. Good coffee, not…” He made a face at his own cup before tossing it in the trash. “That.”

Tempting. Frankly, you could spare a little time. Most of the bugs had been ironed out, the ones that remained were a simple fix, and you could do the rest of the coding in your sleep. But there was still a part of you that recoiled at the idea of going out somewhere with a stranger. _Alone_. Sure, he was a stranger who sat and listened to other strangers talk about their traumas with you once a week. But all you knew was his name and the few things you’d been able to pick up from his wandering, screaming mind. But then he was looking at you again, that kicked-puppy look, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders slumped. And there was still that little shadow, the one you wanted to grab onto, to confirm that it was real, really real, not just your brain trying to patch together fictional answers to real mysteries.

“Only because you’re paying for it.” You couldn’t help but let out a short snort of amusement when he visibly perked up, tossing your own coffee in the trash. “Half an hour. Nothing more.”

“That’s fine. That’s great. I… thank you.” Bucky Barnes smiled. It was a small thing, barely there, didn’t quite reach his eyes. But it suited him, almost. Better than the haunted look he usually wore, the distance in his eyes when you glanced at him while someone was ripping themselves open in hopes of finding someone there to stitch them back up. “There’s a place, just a block away. Quiet, nice folks, good coffee.”

Although you knew you shouldn’t, knew it wasn’t quite right… you reached out, gently touched his mind. Just to see if he had ulterior motives, if there were images of unsavory things he wanted to do to you. There was a sudden rush, the chaos of his mind nearly dragging you under with even such a light, careful brush up against it.

_Andromeda like the stars, like constellations, maybe she likes astronomy, is that a conversation we could have, maybe it would be too much, need to be careful about how I ask, don’t want to be demanding, don’t want to make her more uncomfortable than she already is, maybe get her a sandwich too, almost time for my evening doses, what kind of coffee, gotta keep it together, don’t screw this up Barnes, don’t—_

_Желание. Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь._

You ripped away from his mind, stumbling back a step. Just a tiny glance at that shadow, but there it was. A part of it, a small portion, a chorus of whispering voices that were not his own. It felt like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you momentarily. No thoughts of hurting you, of taking advantage of you, but… But those words. That shadow at the corner of the mind. It was—

“Whoa, you okay?” A quiet question, voice low as he took a step towards you. One hand, the one not covered by a glove, reached out, gently touched your elbow to steady you. “You look pale. Did something—”

“I’m fine.” Your voice trembled, showing just enough emotion to make you feel absolutely mortified. You were supposed to be unflappable, unmovable, unaffected. But just that one glance had shaken you. “Just… need to take my evening round of medications, that’s all. I get lightheaded without them and some food.”

“They’ve got sandwiches there. Not much, but… food is food,” he said. Brow still creased with concern, he glanced over your shoulder, gripped your elbow just a little tighter. “You gonna be okay to walk there? It’s just a block, but…”

“I’m good. Just a dizzy spell.” You pulled your arm from his grip, slammed up your mental walls when you felt the dull sting your action caused him. “I’ve had worse.”

Although he didn’t push the issue, and although you couldn’t hear the whisper of this thoughts, his expression let you know that he didn’t fully believe you. Just enough doubt to make you feel uneasy. It was a difficult conversation, telling someone that you’d peeked into their mind, knew thoughts that they’d grown used to having to themselves, the only real form of privacy they’d been afforded. And you didn’t particularly feel like having it with a stranger. Not when you were exhausted, reeling from what you’d found in his mind, hungry and in desperate need of caffeine. Thankfully, the café really was a short walk, and you had a triple shot Americano and a fancy chicken salad sandwich in your hands within minutes. The little space was empty, save for the two baristas behind the counter, inoffensive instrumental music playing softly and little plastic flowers set on each round table. The one Bucky chose was in the corner of the café, the chair he sat in facing the door and affording him a clear view of the whole space. When you sat, unwrapped your sandwich, you glanced down and realized that he was sitting at the edge of his chair, hands clutching the latte he’d gotten for himself tightly enough that you were a little concerned he was going to crush the cup.

“So.” Digging in your bag for your pills, you set each container down on the table before leaning back and popping them open. “I have my coffee, I have my pills, and I have food. Ask your question.”

“Right. Half an hour, didn’t forget.” Bucky took a sip of his coffee, trying to pretend that he wasn’t watching you take your medication. It had become a well-practiced routine, a certain order that you couldn’t break. Paliperidone first, sertraline next, high dose naproxen last. “You, uh… you mentioned that you were telepathic in group.”

“Among other things, yeah.” You tossed the pill bottles back in your bag, took a big bite out of the sandwich and spoke through a mouthful of food. “Look, I don’t know what put you in group, and I’m sure it’s real bad, but like I said last week, I don’t remove memories.”

“I don’t… it’s not memories that I want removed.” He leaned forward, voice low and a dark look in his eyes. “I don’t even know if it’s something that can be removed. But there’s… stuff in my head. I’ve tried other options, taken medicine, done therapy, but it’s still there.”

The shadow. The whispered ones, each one sending a chill down your spine, an invisible weight to them. Doing your best to continue looking casual, you swallowed and took another sip of your coffee.

“What kinda stuff? Because if it’s like hallucinations and stuff, I can tell you first hand, bud, that’s something medication is the only real option for. I’m a telepath, but I can’t just manually rewire the brain or change its chemistry.” You gave a small shrug, picking up the sandwich again.

“No, it’s…” He sighed, doing a poor job of hiding his frustration. As you took another large bite, he ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath. “I can’t… go into details. But I had this… this protocol put into my head. These words that when they’re said, completely shut me down. Force me to follow the orders of whoever says them.”

“Trigger words for programming after you were brainwashed.” _Very_ interesting. You took another huge bite, chewing as you watched him. “Were you a spy?”

“… Something like that,” he mumbled, slumping back in the chair and running a hand over his jaw.

“You know that if I do agree to do this—and to be clear, I’m not agreeing right now—I’ll have to dig pretty deep in your head.” Finishing off the sandwich, you wiped your hands on the front of your hoodie. “If there’s anything confidential in there, I’ll see it. Government secrets, whatever. If you’re really asking me to do this, you’re giving me full and unrestricted access to your mind and everything in it. Every memory, every synapse, everything you may have repressed. All of it is going to be laid out for me.”

“You say that like you’ve done this before,” Bucky said, quirking an eyebrow.

“A long time ago. In another life.” In a time when you’d been a different person, young and bright-eyed and ready to take on the world. “You have your secrets, Barnes. I have mine, too.”

There was a shift in his expression. Subtle, but there. He was intrigued. And that was very, _very_ not good. Your secrets were secrets for a reason, half-truths hidden behind jokes and stories that seemed too strange to be true. You were allowed to be intrigued in the sad mystery man with trigger words in his brain, but not the other way around. Sipping at your coffee, you reached into your pocket, fidgeted with the coin you always carried on you, the surface worn down and smooth after so many years of your fingers nervously rubbing at it.

“Look, I’m gonna level with you. The idea of letting someone I barely know root around in my head, see everything I’ve done and everything I was forced to do, is not something I’m wild about. My head’s been messed with plenty. But there’s still people out there who can use those trigger words and take all of my control away from me. Use me to hurt people.” He folded his arms over his chest, expression settling once more into one of careful, practiced stoicism. “I’m running out of options. And frankly, I’m pretty fuckin’ desperate.”

“Hm.” You worried your thumb and forefinger over the coin, eyes narrowed. If he was going to be honest with you, especially about his own mental state, then… “I’ll level with you, too. I have depressive schizoaffective disorder. If I don’t take my pills, the voices in my head go from real to not real quickly, and it’s hard to tell what’s reality and what’s a delusion. Even _with_ my medications, I still sometimes wonder if the life I live is just all one grand illusion that I’ll wake up from one day. When I had my meltdown, it didn’t just fuck up my body. It left scars on my mind and my powers, too. Before, I may have been able to pull that shit out of your brain with surgical precision. But I’m rusty and I’m less than precise now. _If_ I agree to do this for you, it’ll take time. I’d never call myself a good person, but I at least try my best not to rip chunks of people’s minds out or leave irreparable psychic damage. This’ll be something we both have to work at together. Mutual trust, such as it is. It won’t be easy, and there’s a lot of shit I’ll have to pull out that might trigger you. Hell, some of it might trigger me. So be very damn sure that you’re comfortable with this plan of yours before you ask me for real.”

You stared him down. Bucky stared right back. Unstoppable force, immovable object. Finally, he leaned towards you once more, hands flat on the table.

“Prove that you have the gifts you say you do,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“What, that I’m not just a crazy girl?” You snorted. “Fine.”

Setting the coin down on the table, you pulled the hairband off your wrist, tied back your hair and took a deep breath. While telepathy had always come naturally to you, the minds of the people around you naturally reaching out towards yours to offer up their secrets, the others took effort. Made you stretch muscles that were still sore, still a bit scarred. You’d been practicing, of course, but didn’t want to get spooked and accidentally bring down the café around you. Aware of his gaze, you let out the breath slowly, focusing on the coin. Angling your body to make sure the bored baristas couldn’t see, you took another deep breath and _reached._ The coin floated a few inches off the table, wavering for a moment before you held out your left hand. Fingers splayed wide, you clenched your jaw as the coin wound its way between each finger, a serpentine path you’d done a thousand times before, slower and more hesitant than it had been when you were a kid. Finally, you let the coin come to rest in your palm, fingers curling around it. If Bucky was impressed, he didn’t show it, eyes flicking back up to meet your own.

“What am I thinking about?” he asked.

“Is that permission to read your mind?” you countered.

He just stared at you, unimpressed. With a heavy, dramatic sigh, you slipped the coin back in your pocket. Bracing your elbow on the table and resting your cheek in your hand, you let your mind brush feather-light against his own. Not enough to get too deep, just enough for surface-level thoughts. After what you’d seen earlier, you didn’t want to risk anything more.

“You’re thinking about how many escape routes there are in this place, even though you’ve mapped them out hundreds of times before. You’re thinking about what you’re gonna have for dinner, trying to remember if you picked up cat food or if you’re gonna have to cook for the cat, too. And since you’re wondering, yes.” You motioned to the scar on your cheek, the one that ran just under your right eye. “I did get this during my meltdown.”

“Huh.” Bucky blinked, mirroring your position. “What about the baristas?”

Rolling your eyes, you glanced over at the two teenagers, one of them on their phone, the other staring out the window with a pensive expression.

“The one on the phone is thinking about a party he’s going to tomorrow night, wondering if the guy he likes will be there, hoping we’ll get out of here soon so the rest of the night will be quiet and he won’t have to work. The one staring out the window…” You hesitated, touch on the kid’s mind hesitating for a moment. “He’s worried about a lot of things. Private things, stuff I don’t think I should share.”

Bucky looked over at them as well, expression softening slightly.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asked.

“I can’t see the future, you know.” You snorted, although there was no humor in the sound. “… But he’s not gonna hurt himself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A moment of silence passed between you. Not uncomfortable, not strained. But not carrying that air of familiarity, either. Finally, Bucky looked back at you. You quickly slammed up your floodgates, made sure that whatever he was thinking didn’t accidentally make its way to you. Even if he didn’t ask you in the end, even if you didn’t say yes, you wanted to at least _attempt_ to respect his boundaries now that you knew he wasn’t a threat to you. You did your best to look casual, sipping at your Americano.

“What’s your full name?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Your name. I only know your first name. If we’re gonna be working together outside of group, it’d be nice to know who you are. Outside of just the quiet, grumpy telepath who checks out mentally all the time.” When you glared at him, he just grinned, amused at your annoyance.

“… Andromeda Haller,” you muttered, setting down the cup a bit more violently than was necessary. “And I didn’t agree to work with you.”

“Well, Andromeda,” he said, “this is me officially asking. Down on my knees, metaphorically. I’ll buy you coffee after every group session. Owe you a life debt, even if it doesn’t work out. Please. Help me get this shit out of my brain.”

You could have said no. It would have been easy. Just a two letter word, a simple syllable. Gotten up, thanked him for the sandwich and the coffee, and begged your therapist to sign you up for a different group therapy session the next morning to avoid ever having to see him again. You’d said no to other people, refused to wipe their nightmares from their minds, didn’t want to go rooting around in there and risk altering who they were out of some stupid motivation to _do good._ Frankly, you _wanted_ to say no. To let him go about his life so you could go about yours, hole up in your little townhouse and lock yourself away from the world and keep to yourself. But you heard that stupid little voice at the back of your head, the one that sounded an awful lot like Uncle Kurt: _It is a great honor to save a soul._ One of the many lessons he’d imparted on you, desperate to put a little kindness inside of you, a little love for humanity.

The jury was still out on whether that was a success or not. But when you looked at Bucky Barnes, felt the cold sting of his desperation, thought of the shadows you had so briefly glimpsed… You knew that your Uncle Kurt would be disappointed if you said no. One little bit of good, one time where you went out of your way to help, and you figured you would be good with the universe.

“Fine.” Despite your visible reluctance, he lit up, sitting up straight. “But I get to pull the plug at any point. If this is too much, for me or for you, then I’m walking away. No arguments, no trying to convince me otherwise. That clear?”

“As crystal,” Bucky said, a little bit of light finally reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Andromeda.”

“And don’t call me that.” You stood up, retrieving your bag and picking up your half-empty coffee cup. “Only my therapists and my boss call me Andromeda. It’s Andy. We’ll talk about plans or whatever for digging around in your head after group next week.”

“Wait, let me get you my number.” He pulled out his phone, seeming to struggle with it for a moment before pulling up his contacts and patting at his pockets. With a loud sigh, you dug out a pen from your bag, handed it to him so that he could write down his number for you on a napkin. You folded it up, shoving it into your back pocket. “If you think of anything—”

“I’ll text you when I get home so you have my number,” you told him, rubbing at your temples. Although the caffeine was starting to kick in, you were still tired, still a bit drowsy. If you were going to get back to your house, you needed to leave sooner rather than later. “… Thanks again for the coffee. And the food.”

“You’re welcome.” Bucky stood up as well, pushed in both of the chairs and picked up the sandwich wrapper you’d left along with his coffee. “Let me walk you to your car.”

You quirked an eyebrow.

“I’ve got pepper spray. I’ll be fine.” You watched him toss away the trash with perfect accuracy, gloved hand clutching his cup. “The chivalry is appreciated, but not needed.”

“I’d… feel better if you let me,” he mumbled, hurrying over to reach the door before you, opening it for you. “Never know what kinda creeps are lurking around.”

“… Right,” you said, pausing for a moment before you stepped outside. “Well, wouldn’t want you losing sleep about it, now would we?”

The very idea of someone trying to jump _you,_ like you wouldn’t be able to sense the malicious intent beforehand, like you couldn’t make someone’s head explode, like you weren’t dangerous despite your short stature, was hilarious. A bit insulting, but more funny than anything else. And you were too tired to argue with him, anyways. Bucky remained just a step behind you, tension radiating off of him as you casually strolled back towards the parking lot. It hadn’t been long since the sun had set, still far too early for him to be so paranoid. But it wasn’t your place to tell him that. After all, you had your own set of irrational fears. No place for judgement. Fishing out your keys, you unlocked the car and turned back to him, hand braced on the window.

“You’ve successfully escorted me safely to my vehicle, both of us unharmed and no sign of a villain in sight,” you told him, waving your cup dramatically. “A job very well done. Thank you.”

The snark wasn’t exactly necessary, probably could have been something you replaced with a clipped ‘thank you’. But Bucky just looked amused, letting out a little snort and shoving his hands in his pockets as you opened the door and threw your bag in.

“Get home safe, Andy,” he said, giving you a tiny nod.

“Yeah.” Allowing yourself a tiny smile, you gave him a small nod back. “You too, Bucky.”

Starting the ignition, you waited until you saw him disappear around the corner of the church before you pulled out. Maybe it was just the exhaustion, or your pills finally kicking in, or your caffeine addled brain. But you still could have sworn that there was something familiar about the man. Something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. But you would figure it out, eventually.

After all, you were going to be digging around in the man’s brain. No secrets. Nothing hidden. And you were still uncertain if agreeing to it had been the right thing to do.

\---

_“… and there is the constellation that you were named for, my dear. Andromeda. Stars named themselves for Princess Andromeda of Greek myth, the wife of the great hero Perseus.”_

_“What about those?”_

_“That’s the constellation Cassiopeia.”_

_“And that one?”_

_“That is Pegasus.”_

_“Oh, like the flying horse!”_

_“Exactly. Look at you, you clever little thing. You’ve been paying attention in class.”_

_“Only because Aunt Jean told me that if I didn’t, she’d take away my ice cream privileges.”_

_“Well, as fun as it is to sneak you out of your classes, I do have to side with her on this. Your education is important, Andy.”_

_“But it’s so boring, Uncle Kurt. And the other kids are so distracting. They think so loud.”_

_“Have you been doing your little exercises that Jean taught you?”_

_“… Yes. But Jubilee just thinks so loud! It’s like she’s always shouting in her head about something.”_

_“Well, my dear, if you keep up your practice, then one day, you’ll be able to block out all that yelling. A quiet mind is a blessing, and one I’m sure you’ll find.”_

_“… hey, Uncle Kurt?”_

_“Yes, Andy?”_

_“Why does the Professor always look so sad when I ask him about Dad?”_

_“… There will come a day, darling, when you learn a hard lesson. One that the Professor had to learn himself. Talking about your father can be painful for him. I think that it’s best if you don’t ask him questions. When he’s ready to tell you about your father and your mother, he’ll let you know.”_

_“What was the lesson?”_

_“That some people… no matter how much you want to, cannot be saved. … Now, come. We should get you back into bed before someone notices you’ve snuck out.”_

_“Wait! One last star!”_

_“Of course. Which ones?”_

_“Those!”_

_“That’s the constellation Perseus. He was able to join his wife among the stars.”_

_“Wow… The whispers…”_

_“Are the stars speaking to you again, Andy?”_

_“Yes…”_

_“And what do the stars say?”_

_“They say—”_

_Everything. And nothing at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we have it!! my first marvel fic!!!! i've had plans for a bucky fic kicking around in my head for a while, but none of them really panned out. then i finally watched legion and, well..... i got inspired. this is really just a big mish-mash of handpicked canon from the MCU, the comics, and the Legion tv show. canon has, as i usually do, been taken out back and shot so that i can create a better canon of my own
> 
> i hope y'all stick around!! i have some exciting ideas planned for this fic, and andy is a character that i think i'm going to have a lot of fun with 
> 
> (and don't worry, alpine the cat will of course make her appearance she is Too Important not to include)
> 
> love y'all. be kind to yourselves.


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _losing my mind searching for explanation  
>  faithful to my made up mission  
> i never felt like enough..._

_“I think you’re ready, Andromeda.”_

_“Professor, I don’t know if—”_

_“You’ve made large strides in your training with Jean. We can all see how strong you’ve gotten, how much you’ve improved with your control.”_

_“… Who is it going to be?”_

_“A small team is coming back from a mission. We’ll start you out with them, see what information and memories you can extract from their minds.”_

_“But that’s dangerous, isn’t it?”_

_“It can be. But like I said, I have faith in your control, Andromeda. Jean will also be here with me to monitor, but I don’t think that you’ll need her help. Or mine.”_

_“I’ll… I’ll do my best, Professor.”_

_“I know you will. Just remain focused. Remember your breathing exercises, keep your touch light. Before you know it, you’ll be going on your own missions. Helping others like us.”_

_“That’s all I want to do. I want to help.”_

_“And you will. … Ah, Logan, there you are. Have a seat. Andromeda will be the one to debrief you.”_

_“What, the kid? I dunno—”_

_“Jean is monitoring. Please, sit. Andromeda?”_

_“… Please close your eyes, Mr. Logan, and relax. This will be quick.”_

_“Ready?”_

_“… Ready.”_

_“Very well, then. Begin.”_

\---

A fluffy white cat with blue eyes stared up at you with open curiosity, tail twitching behind her as you stared right back. Slowly, you crouched, taking a hand out of your pocket and holding it out to her. The cat hesitated for a moment, sniffing at your fingers, before she butted her head against your palm and began to purr.

God, you loved animals. No thoughts to read, no judgements. They either liked you, or they didn’t, simple as that. And Bucky’s cat seemed to lean towards the former, pressing herself against your leg as you stroked her soft fur. The rumble of her purr was nice, a small piece of comfort you could hold onto in a strange place.

Bucky Barnes’ apartment was nicer than you would have expected, given his… disheveled appearance. Neat, tidy, almost disturbingly clean. No decoration other than a couple of framed photos and a few succulents on the window sill. But the furniture looked comfortable, well used, possibly second hand. You suspected that if you sat on the couch, you’d sink into the cushions all too easily. But you stayed crouched, at least for the moment, letting the cat rub up against your legs as you idly pet her.

“See you met Alpine.” The man himself came back from the kitchen, holding out a glass of iced tea for you.

“Yeah. Sweet cat.” Standing back up, you took it, making a quiet mental note of the fact that he was still wearing a glove on his left hand. “You must have a hell of a time keeping all that white fur off of you.”

“I have a pretty sizable budget for lint rollers,” he chuckled, moving to sit on the couch.

An awkward silence stretched between you and Bucky as you moved to sit in an arm chair instead, sinking into the cushions and feeling a little silly with your feet just touching the ground. Sipping at the iced tea (sweetened, thank god), you cleared your throat and located a coaster before putting the sweating glass down on the coffee table between you and him.

“So.” You scooted forward in the chair to place your feet flat on the ground, bracing your elbows on your knees. “Are you really ready for this?”

“Close to it as I can get, I think,” Bucky told you, setting down his glass as well. The cat—Alpine, you reminded yourself—had jumped up to curl up in his lap, purr a low, distant rumble. “What… exactly is this gonna be like?”

You were wondering when he was going to ask. It had only been a couple of days since you’d agreed to attempt to dig around in his head, and he’d only requested you to come over to his place for the first session. No questions, at least not over text. Running a hand through your hair, you took a moment to try to think over what you were going to say. Bucky had no experience with telepaths, as far as you knew, and the techniques that you’d been taught over a decade ago weren’t exactly common place. The Professor had kept a tight leash on all his other psychics. You were an outlier, and you were worried that one of his people was going to pick up on what you were doing and come for a visit.

Not the time to worry about that. They’d left you alone for so many years, you had to hope they kept it up.

“Have you ever had a lucid dream? One where you’re not quite conscious, but still have a bit of control over your dreams? Just enough where you can reach out, rearrange things.” You laced your fingers together, meeting his eye.

“Never tried it before,” he admitted. “I’ve been trying meditation, but uh… the noise is pretty loud, you know?”

With a bitter smile, he motioned vaguely to his temple. You knew, all too well, what that noise level could be. From personal experience, and from the scattered thoughts you’d picked up from him. A quiet mind was a blessing, but one that very few people ever truly got to experience. You let out a soft hum, propping your chin up on your laced fingers.

“What about tripping?”

“Huh?”

“Like, on acid or ‘shrooms. Psychedelics. Have you ever gone on a trip, had a guide?”

“Uh, no. Definitely not.” Bucky sat up just a little straighter, brow furrowed. “Have… you?”

“Once. Bad idea, given, you know.” You gestured vaguely to your own head. “My own fucked up brain chemistry. Trip itself wasn’t bad, but I was hallucinating for a while after. Took weeks for me to properly sort through whether I was having an episode or not, figure out what all that happened to me was real and what wasn’t. But…” You waved a hand dismissively. “Not the point. I don’t know if I really have a great point of reference for you for what it’s gonna feel like, but… it’s somewhere between a lucid dream and a very tightly controlled trip. All you have to do is stay calm and let me take control. You start fighting back, it can make things difficult.”

“So am I… gonna be seeing things, then? Like, hallucinating?” he asked, clearly concerned.

“It’ll all be in your head. What you see will be what your mind shows us. I won’t be putting anything new in, just pulling out things that maybe you’ve repressed, key memories that could help us find a way to block the programming.” God, you were really doing a bad job of explaining the process, weren’t you? Sighing, you shifted so that your legs were tucked under you, shoes kicked off. “There won’t be any negative side effects, once we’re done with the session. I mean, you may remember things that you don’t want to, but you’re not gonna hallucinate.”

At least, not as long as you did things right. The brain was a delicate thing, so many synapses and nerves, a tangled web of experiences and memories, chemicals and electricity. The most complicated organic computer, written in a code that hadn’t yet been fully translated. It took patience and a delicate touch to unravel memories without altering them, a surgical precision that you weren’t sure you had much of anymore. Since you’d left, patience and being delicate weren’t _exactly_ your thing. But if you approached it like coding, carefully finding bugs, then maybe…

The whole thing was a mistake. But you couldn’t exactly back out, now. Not when he was watching you, paying attention to what you were saying and doing.

“I used to be pretty good at this,” you told him, a fairly weak attempt at soothing his nerves. “We’ll just… start slow today. Take it easy, start at an outer layer and slowly work our way in. That sound good?”

“Sure.” He gave a tiny shrug, fingers scratching his cat’s ears. “I trust that you know what you’re doing.”

“That’s only because you haven’t seen my workspace,” you chuckled. A dark joke, and one that you wished you could snatch out of the air and shove back down your dumb throat.

But, thankfully, Bucky only chuckled with you. He was still nervous of course, but you couldn’t blame him. He was letting a relative stranger root around in his _brain,_ trusting that you wouldn’t do to it what others had. Settling on your knees in the chair, you took a deep breath. It had been years since you’d attempted to meditate, to center yourself and open up a mental space not only for yourself, but for someone else. Thankfully, the apartment was quiet, the only sound Alpine’s purr and a mixture of your breathing and Bucky’s.

“Okay,” you said, voice soft. “Close your eyes. Clear your mind. Try to sync your breathing to mine. Slow breath in, hold five seconds, slow breath out. Just like your meditation techniques.”

You watched him close his eyes, hands coming to rest on his knees. In no time at all, he’d matched his breathing to your own. When you closed your eyes and tentatively prodded at his mind, it was the calmest you’d seen it. No screaming, no gunfire, no jumbled thoughts. Impressive. Maybe you should have taken the group therapist’s advice and worked on your meditation after all. Letting your own eyes slip closed, you struggled to clear your own mind. Shoved worries into little boxes, taped them up for later, waved away the lingering shadows of doubt and created a clean, curated space within your head. It took a moment for you to recreate the old space that you’d had as a teenager, create room for him to join you in it. A room within a room, a tightly controlled old daydream that you’d been afraid to go back to.

The things you’d done there… This wouldn’t be like then.

Forcing away that old thrill of fear, you let yourself float away from your body, tucked the space under your arm as you reached out and slipped into Bucky’s head. Carefully, like dipping your toes into a cold pond, pausing when you felt a slight resistance. A normal reaction, one that you gave him time to process, his mind wanting to reject your presence at first. But once he registered you as familiar, you took to the depths of his mind like a warm pool, sinking in. You guided him into the little space you’d set up, counted down the moments until he was fully there, left his body and gave in fully.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One…

_Bucky woke on a sunny hill, laying on his back under an old oak tree, the branches twisting and bare, breath fogging in late autumn chill. You stood next to him, waited patiently as he adjusted to the space, processed the unreality of the whole thing._

_“This is… really weird,” he said, sitting up and looking around the space. “What is this place?”_

_“Think of it like a dream that can hold other dreams. A contained space within my mind. I based it on a place I used to go to when I was a kid.” You offered a hand to him, helped him stand and gain his bearings. “It’ll allow me better control over picking through your memories. Make it safer for you, too.”_

_Bucky took a deep breath, staring out over the hill. Out over forests, old crumbling estates, leaves turning red and orange and frost just beginning to coat branches in a thin layer. A place upstate, within walking distance of the school. A place where you could be alone, away from so many busy, frightened minds._

_“This is upstate, isn’t it?” he asked, glancing down at you. Even in this dream space, he towered over you, as large in his mind as he was in his body. “You grew up here.”_

_“Yes, I implied that when I said I came here as a kid,” you said, snorting. “Good job, Sherlock. Now, come on. This isn’t about me. There’s a reflection pool just at the bottom of the hill. We’ll use that to start unravelling your memories.”_

_With a long sigh, he shoved his hands in his pockets, motioning for you to go ahead. You knew that he wasn’t going to drop it, and would likely have to field questions about who you had once been once you both came back to your bodies. Although you weren’t happy about it, you grudgingly had to admit it was only fair. If you were going to get him to trust you, really trust you, then you’d have to show him a bit of yourself in exchange for what he showed you. In an effort to make him more comfortable in the space, you let the dry grass crunch under your feet, let the cold sink just a little into your bones. Let a bit of reality bleed in, felt the tension in him begin to fade away as you finally approached the reflection pool. Small, the waters shallow and calm, perfectly still as you knelt at the very edge. Bucky hesitated for a moment, but grunted as he sat down next to you._

_“Take off your shoes and socks,” you told him, doing so yourself and rolling up your jeans. “I promise the water will be warm. Dipping our ‘feet’, such as they are, in the water will help me have a physical connection to your mind.”_

_“Huh.” He blinked, but did as you said, carefully tucking his socks into his boots before rolling up his sweatpants and scooting closer to the edge of the water. When he dipped his legs in, he inhaled sharply. “It… it is warm.”_

_“Nothing worse than sticking your legs in cold water when it’s already kinda chilly. Not gonna torture you with too much reality in here.” You grinned, slipping your legs in as well, the water coming up to your knees, while it only went half-way up his shins. Damn tall people. “Okay. Once I reach in, this space is going to change around us. Think of the water as grounding. And try not to freak out.”_

_“Comforting,” he muttered, but he still adjusted how he sat to get more comfortable, leaning back on his hands. “Alright. Do your worst.”_

_Snorting, you shot him an amused look before closing your eyes. Let your aura bleed out through the soles of your feet, slither its way through the water to bleed into him. A dream within a dream, layers to protect both your mind and his own. Taking a deep breath, you let your touch branch out, sink into the outer layer of the shadows in his mind. There was a small jolt, travelling from him into you, a quiet resistance. Gritting your teeth, you fought back against it. Sank in deeper until you found what you were looking for. Eyelids twitching, you drug the memory out of him, viewed it in your own mind as it was reflected before him in the space._

_Flickering and grainy like a classic film, an old memory that played sluggish at first. Movements of figures in shadow too slow, speeding up as the memory progressed. Faces came into view, no longer blurry, men dressed in tactical uniforms and lab coats, all with pinched expressions. Fear, disgust, all thinly veiled. The crackling sound of soldering to the left. But in the memory, Bucky’s eyes remained facing forward. He was in a bank vault, technicians working on computers and on something… something on his left side that you couldn’t see._

_Flashing secondary memories within the primary: A man saying his name. A train, in a mountain. Another man, a friend, screaming his nickname. A long fall into a ravine. Being dragged, a trail of blood in the snow. Surgical equipment, body strapped down to an operating table. A hand that wasn’t—_

_Back to the primary memory. A sudden spike of anger and fear, lashing out with his left arm, sending a technician flying. Guns in his face. A man in a suit; handler. His handler, coming in, face pinched in anger and voice cold._

_“Mission report,” the handler said._

_Silence. A ringing in Bucky’s ears, his gaze still facing forward._

_“Mission report, now,” the handler demanded._

_Silence. The handler walked forward, regarded Bucky, then delivered a vicious backhanded blow. But it barely registered, Bucky’s mind too scattered. A million places at once, pain in his temples, a glitch in the programming. A metallic glint from the corner of his eye as he turned his head back towards the handler._

_“There was a man on the bridge…” Bucky’s voice but… but also not Bucky’s voice. Different, pitched lower, quieter. Tinny to his ears and in the memory. “Who was he?”_

_“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” the handler said, displeased._

_“I knew him,” Bucky-not-Bucky whispered._

_The handler let his anger show, jaw clenched as he pulled over a chair, sat in front of Bucky. There was a spike of fear, almost childlike, afraid of punishment. Another round of the ringing in his ears, a spike of pain._

_“Your work has been a gift to mankind,” the handler said, his tone calm, but carrying a dark urgency. “You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time. Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to give it a push. But, if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”_

_Spoken as if to a child, with a schooled patience. But there was something that Bucky just couldn’t let go. A glimpse of a face that he knew, a person that had stirred memories long taken from him, pushed back against the wipes. When Bucky spoke, his voice was shaking, sad._

_“But I knew him.”_

_The handler sighed, let his disappointment show. Stood from his chair to approach the technicians. Their conversation was inaudible over the rushing buzz in Bucky’s ears, the fear that swelled in him. He knew what was going to happen. He knew that he couldn’t fight back. The technicians finally approached, pushed him back into the chair. He let them put a mouthguard in, clenched down hard. Restraints locked into place around his arms at the press of a button, a mechanical whir sounding behind him. All he could do was watch as the device lowered, clamped in around his head, and—_

_Screams. Nothing but screams._

_An eradication of a self._

_The memory ended and you rushed back to your dream body, slumped forward and hands curled tightly in your lap. The mindscape had returned to the way it had been, your eyes opening as you tried to catch your breath, winded by the force of the pain you’d felt at the end of the memory. Bucky’s pain. When you turned your head to look at him, the color had drained from his face, eyes wide and pupils dilated. He wouldn’t look at you, hands curled into tight fists._

_“You were a HYDRA agent,” you managed to whisper._

_“Yes,” he mumbled, still staring straight ahead, into the waving tree branches in the distance. “I…”_

_“That man was Alexander Pierce.”_

_“Yes.”_

_Taking another deep breath, you tried to keep your voice even._

_“You were the Winter Soldier, weren’t you?”_

_A ghost story that had been real all along. An agent of HYDRA, existence brought to light only with the leaking of classified documents. Real name redacted, but everything else… everything else was there. It explained the Russian thoughts, the paranoia, the screams and blood that constantly shadowed his thoughts. HYDRA had wanted to kill mutants… people like you. How many of them had died at his hands, missions for him to coldly execute? You’d long since left the school when the documents were leaked, but you knew from the silence on their end that it had spooked the team. Covert operations carried out even more covertly, sticking so firmly to the shadows that only someone who knew them could see what they were doing._

_“Yes,” Bucky whispered. He finally looked over at you, a fear in his gaze that rooted you in place. “I couldn’t… I hadn’t been able to remember any of that. How did you…?”_

_“It was on the surface. One of the outer layers in the shadow at the very edge of your psyche.” Your own voice shook, toes curling into the soft mud at the bottom of the reflection pool. “There’s so much more in there.”_

_He was silent for a long moment. Just watched you, fear still darkening his expression, fists curled so tight you could faintly imagine hearing his joints creaking._

_“I’m a mutant, you know,” you said. Tried to put some force behind your voice, but failed, hating how soft it was. “My grandmother was a Holocaust survivor. HYDRA hunted people like me.”_

_“I know.” He cleared his throat, looked away from you. Looked ashamed, guilty, head hanging. “I fought them. Before… before the Winter Soldier. My ma was Jewish. Romanian.”_

_“My people’s blood is still on your hands. Your people’s blood is on your hands.”_

_“I know.”_

_This man… this man had been your enemy, once. If he was still your enemy, you weren’t sure. But you had him vulnerable, at your mercy. It would have been easy to rip his mind to pieces, to take revenge for what had been done to you, to the family you barely even knew. You wanted to hate him, despise him. But the grief on his face, that radiated through his mind… it seemed genuine._

_“Redemption is a difficult path,” you finally said, turning away from him. “Long, winding. Paved with blood and the ashes of who you once were. The ashes of the people you’ve hurt.”_

_“You say that like you know it first hand,” he said._

_Staring down at the reflective surface of the lake, you tucked your hair behind your ears, looked at your face. None of your father there, except for your eyes, blue as his had been. Tearing your gaze away from your reflection, you looked back over at him._

_“If I’m going to keep doing this, we need to trust each other. You have to promise me that if I do get this shit out of your brain, you’ll use your freedom from it to reverse the things you’ve done.” Your voice was low, hands braced on your knees._

_“I promise.”_

_Not a lie. You would have known, being sunk as deep as you were within his mind. Taking a deep breath, you reached forward and tapped the surface of the pool, sending ripples through it. He watched, confusion replacing the guilt and fear that had been present._

_“Equivalent exchange.” Your smile was bitter, fingertips sinking into the water’s surface as it stilled once more. “If you’re going to trust me, I need to show you things about myself, too.”_

_“You… don’t have to do that,” he mumbled, half-hearted._

_“I do. You’re just too polite to ask it of me. But it’s okay. Since you showed me something painful, I’ll show you something painful, too.”_

_You didn’t want to. The last thing you wanted to do was to rip yourself open for anyone else to see. But you also knew that it was the only way to get him to open up his mind to you. If he was going to stop fighting every time you sank into those shadows, he would need to know who you were. Not just a mutant with psychic powers, but a person. It also just seemed… well, it seemed like the right thing to do. Making someone bleed and not bleeding in return seemed a bit cruel, even to you. Scooting closer to him, you pulled your hand out of the pool and held it out towards him._

_“Easier to actually put my memories in your head if we’re touching. The water’s just for me.” Clearing your throat when he stared at your hand, unmoving, you wiggled your fingers. “I won’t bite. This time.”_

_There was another long moment of hesitation, and you wondered briefly if perhaps you should just pull both of you out and call the whole thing off. But then he pulled the glove off of his left hand. The metal glinted in the dim light of the mind space, the joints giving a soft whir as he curled and uncurled his fingers. That would explain the soldering sounds in his memory, the glint out of the corner of his eye. He wore the glove to hide it. Taking a deep breath, he rested his hand in yours, gigantic compared to your own tiny hand. His fingers curled around yours, his gaze hesitant as he glanced at you._

_The cold surface felt strange to the touch at first, but when you curled your fingers around his in return, you found that the metal warmed quickly under your touch._

_“Close your eyes,” you told him, voice soft._

_There was no hesitation this time, his eyes fluttering shut. Taking a deep breath of your own, you closed your eyes as well and reached into the well of your memories, extending one of the ones you’d buried deep out to him so that he could see it. Playing like a movie behind your eyelids, flickering to life to replace the darkness._

_Your hands were small as they reached for a man with his back to you, still just a child. Powers only beginning to manifest, bright-eyed and delighted at being a real-life superhero. Just like your father, who turned at your delighted giggle. But he did not smile. In the few scattered memories you had of him, he never did. There was always a pinched pain to his blue eyes, face haggard, dark hair always a mess. When you reached up for him, he sighed, letting you take his hand in both of yours._

_“Where are you going?” you asked in your squeaky little child voice._

_“I have to go away, Andromeda.” Crouching, he met your eyes, your chubby cheeked face and wild dark hair reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses, slipped low on his nose._

_“Why?”_

_“Because.”_

_“But you’ll come back?”_

_He’d left many times. Left you in the care of Uncle Kurt and Uncle Henry and Aunt Jean, who all did their best to smile and pretend like they weren’t scared of your father and what it was he did when he was gone. But you could feel their emotions, knew what they were thinking. But not your father. Never your father. He was always a black hole, an unknown. Untouchable._

_“… Make sure you behave.”_

_No answer. Never an answer. But this time, he didn’t just get up and turn away, slink into the shadows for months at a time. Instead, he reached forward, ruffling your hair. There was a fondness to his gaze that you hadn’t seen before, but a sadness, too. Still, you were delighted. You rushed forward, threw your arms around his neck and hugged him. All your father could manage was an awkward pat to your back, but it was enough. When he pulled you back, he looked you in the eye. There was a strange feeling in you, at that look. A chill that passed through you, scared you._

_“It was always blue,” he said, voice low. “Remember, Andromeda. It was always blue.”_

_Nonsense words, riddles with no answers. But even at such a young age, you had grown used to it. Very few of the things your father said ever really seemed to make any kind of sense. But with your child logic, you’d assigned meanings to each of them. Come up with stories about each strange thing he would say, make believe in your mind and twisted reality in his. But this one had stumped you. What was always blue? Why was he telling you?_

_He’d pulled away before you could ask, ruffling your hair one last time. Uncle Kurt had appeared out of thin air, as he always did, letting your fingers curl around one of his and his tail wrapping comfortingly around your waist as you watched your father leave._

_It was the last time you ever saw him._

_When you opened your eyes, Bucky was already looking at you. Sad, curious. You slipped your hand out of his, cleared your throat as you looked away from him._

_“What happened to your father?” he asked, voice soft._

_“He did some… some terrible things after he left. Before he left that last time, too. He tried to hurt someone and the attack was turned back on him. He just… vanished. Disappeared.” You sighed, pulling your feet out of the pool to hug your knees to your chest. “Not dead, but not alive either. Existence just… gone.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t be. He was a terrible father. When he was still alive, he was gone more than he was around. Near the end, I don’t know if he was always aware that I existed.” You snorted, hugging your knees tighter and letting the stars shine in the sky of the mind space. “He did a lot of damage. I think the world might be a better place without him in it.”_

_“That’s…” Bucky trailed off, seeming to struggle with what to say._

_“Oh, it’s fucking terrible of me to think that.” You finally glanced over at him, giving him another bitter smile. “But it’s the truth. The other people who raised me didn’t tell me what happened to him until I was a teenager. Wanted to spare me the pain. But you know the really terrible thing? It didn’t hurt. At all. I just felt… relieved. I had an answer and I moved on.”_

_“What about your mother?”_

_“Never in the picture. Don’t know who she was, whether she’s alive or dead. Doesn’t matter, anyways.” You shrugged again. “Can’t miss someone you never knew.”_

_Pulling your feet out of the water, you retrieved your shoes and socks before standing up. Bucky quietly did the same, grey eyes watching you as you took a deep breath and stared up at the night sky._

_“I think that’s enough for today, we can just—”_

“—Call it here,” you said, opening your eyes and coming back to your own body.

While you were in his mind, your body had come to hover just a few inches off the chair, hair floating around your head. Before Bucky came back to his body fully, regained consciousness, you cut off your powers, falling lightly back onto the cushions and brushing back your hair. He opened his eyes slowly, took a deep breath and blinked a few times before he finally looked over at you. Flexing the fingers of his left hand, glancing down at the purring cat in his lap, he let out a shaky laugh.

“That was—”

“Weird, yeah,” you interrupted, standing up and ignoring the stiffness in your bad leg, stretching it out before you retrieved your bag. “I’d say that you’ll get used to it, but that’s a lie. It’ll probably keep being weird for however long we keep doing this.”

“If you want, I have some leftover lasagna I was gonna heat up for lunch.” Bucky carefully picked up the cat, let her curl up in his arms as he stood. “More iced tea, too. Least I could do, offering you a meal for doing this for me.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.” Adjusting the weight of the bag, you glanced briefly up at him. “I have work that I still need to get done. Probably best if I get out of your hair, anyways.”

What you didn’t say was that you weren’t sure if you were comfortable staying any longer. He seemed nice enough, but what you’d seen in his head… The man might not have presented a threat to you right then and there. But once, he _had_ been a threat. Once, he could have been dispatched to kill you, kill one of the teachers, one of the people who had raised you, the kids you’d grown up with. And you knew that there were more horrors to unravel in that shadow, more things he had done. It was clear that most of what he had done had been the result of brainwashing, programming to make him the perfect killer. But that did nothing to banish the unease you felt around him.

“Well, don’t wanna keep you from anything important,” he said. Awkward, trying his best to be polite. “I’ll… text you to set up the next session?”

“Sure.” You pulled out your keys, fidgeting with the little crescent moon keychain. “See you in group.”

Bucky went to open the door for you, sleeping cat cradled in one arm, but paused with his hand on the knob. You tensed when he turned, brow furrowed.

“One last question,” he mumbled.

“… Alright. One last question,” you relented, sighing and crossing your arms. “Shoot.”

“That memory you showed me, the last thing that was said. ‘It was always blue’.” He tipped his head every so slightly to the side. “Did you ever figure it out? Is that why you like the color blue?”

“That’s technically two questions,” you pointed out, “but I’ll allow it. The first answer is yes, I did figure it out, after I learned what had happened to him and did some research. The second answer is no. I’ve just always liked blue, and the last thing I want to do is give validation to a man who abandoned me and barely even acknowledged my existence.”

“… Okay, one more question,” Bucky said with an apologetic smile.

A long sigh was your only answer, a wave of your hand to tell him to go ahead.

“What did it mean?”

“Oh, it’s only going to be disappointing, the answer to that little mystery,” you told him. “My dad was a junkie before I was born, before people who wanted to help found him. He had the same disorder I do, and self-medicated through drugs. Those drugs just so happened to be blue. He wasn’t lucid when he said that to me. There was no real meaning to it.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinked.

“Like I said, disappointing.”

Like so many things in life. When you raised your eyebrows, stared pointedly at the door, he finally opened it for you. Re-adjusting your bag and gripping your keys tight, you stepped past him, out into the hall of the complex he lived in. When you didn’t hear the door click shut behind you, you glanced back and found him still watching you.

“Thanks again, Andy. I’ll… see you in group,” he said, giving you a tiny nod.

“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve only just gotten started.” You gave him a humorless smile, nodding back. “See you in group.”

It was only once you turned a corner, heading down a flight of stairs, that you finally heard the quiet click of his door closing.

\---

Alarm blaring on your phone, you blinked and turned away from the dual screens you’d been working on, several shells up for the code you’d been working on. Rubbing at your eyes, you sighed. Already time for your evening medication. The hours had passed quickly, with all of your attention focused on work. Pushing away from your cluttered desk, you shut off the alarm and shuffled down the hall towards the kitchen. Pulled out your pills in a daze, filled a glass with water, suppressed a yawn. The session in Bucky’s mind had drained you, used more of your energy than you’d realized. You were still rusty, would likely feel the drain for a while. The scars, the mental blocks, were still there. And you were wondering if they’d ever go away. Sighing, you glanced down at the pills in your hand, hesitating for a moment.

Had they always been blue?

\---

_“Professor, can I talk to you for a moment?”_

_“Of course. Come in, Andromeda. Close the door behind you.”_

_“Um… earlier, when I was looking at Logan’s memories for his debrief… I noticed something.”_

_“You’re troubled by what you found.”_

_“It… Professor, there was a pretty significant amount of psychic scarring in his mind. A lot of it looked recent. I didn’t prod at it, since you wanted me to focus on the debrief, but—”_

_“How recent?”_

_“Oh, um. Like I said, I didn’t really look at it too closely. But if I had to guess, without looking again, maybe within the past few months…? I’m worried that maybe something happened to him.”_

_“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Andromeda. I’ll look into it.”_

_“But… forgive me, Professor, but why did it take this long for someone to notice it? If something’s been done to his mind, to his memories, or something was implanted, then I really think that it’s urgent one of us looks further into—”_

_“Andromeda. Your concern for Logan is appreciated. It may have gone unnoticed simply because we don’t all have the expansive telepathic scope that you do. But now that I know, I will personally do something about it. No further need for you to worry.”_

_“Look, Professor, I get that, but if I was the only one who noticed—”_

_“This is not something you’re to look further into. Do you understand? Your control still needs work, and if you dive into those scars by yourself, you run the risk of triggering something that could put you in danger. Focus on your studies. Leave this to the adults.”_

_“… I understand, sir. I’ll let you handle it.”_

_“Good. Now, go back to your room. It’s getting late, and you did a significant amount of work today. Go get some rest. We have more to do tomorrow.”_

_“Of course. Thank you, Professor.”_

_The stars continued to whisper. Everything, and nothing at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought about playing around with fonts for different sections of this, but ultimately figured that the formatting would be too fucked, so. hopefully the deliniations between memories and dreams and the mind space were all made clear! also forgot just how much i loved placing in clues and hints and foreshadowing in stories hehehehehe
> 
> thank you for reading! love y'all. be kind to yourselves. 
> 
> [support me on ko-fi!](https://ko-fi.com/difficultheart)


	3. Take It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you know my mind  
>  cause i'm trying not to make it fall  
> familiar sights  
> let's hope your mind can take it all_

_“Why did you keep this from me for so long? You let me hope for eleven years.”_

_“Please, let’s just calm down—”_

_“Eleven years, Professor! Eleven years. Do you know how many nights I spent up waiting for him to come back? How confused I was when I asked you about him and you would just look sad and change the subject?”_

_“We just wanted to protect you.”_

_“From what? From the concept of death? Because I’ve seen plenty of people die. I would have understood it, would have been able to mourn and move on instead of constantly wondering if I did something wrong.”_

_“Your father—”_

_“Was unstable. Nearly wiped us all out in a move that he thought would save us all. You already made that clear. Is that the real reason why you kept it from me? Because you were afraid that I’d hear about what he did and try the same thing?”_

_“We knew that you would likely become sick as well. We didn’t want to risk planting ideas in your head that could develop into something poisonous to you. To all of us.”_

_“Just say it. Just say that I’m crazy and you were scared of me. That you’re still scared of me.”_

_“No one is—”_

_“You’re scared right now. You’re wondering if you should wipe my memories of this whole conversation.”_

_“…”_

_“Or are you going to send Logan after me? One less dangerous, crazy descendent to worry about, right?”_

_“Andromeda, you’re not well. Please, let’s calm down. No one wants to hurt you. I’m not going to take this from you. But you’re going to lose control, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”_

_“Don’t tell me what to do! I’m not stupid. I know that you’re the one who left all those scars in Logan’s head. I know that you took from him.”_

_“It was necessary. For his safety, for the safety of all of the children here. He consented to it. Please, let’s just—”_

_“I’m not going to let you do that to me. I’m not. I won’t let you take pieces of me away.”_

_“Please… Take deep breaths… Let’s not escalate this.”_

_“No! No, I know that you’re going to take this away. I won’t let you. I won’t let you hurt me! I won’t let you—”_

_“…”_

_“…”_

_“Are you okay, Professor Xavier?”_

_“I’m fine, Kurt. I’m sorry that it escalated to this.”_

_“I am, too. I will take her to Henry, put her in a secure room before she wakes up.”_

_“I will have Jean monitor, make sure that she’s ready to… to do what needs to be done, if it comes to that.”_

_“It won’t. I will make sure. … I think it may be time to get her the help that she needs. We all know that she’s… not well. Not after—”_

_“I know. Have Dr. McCoy start a course of treatment for her. I’ll personally oversee her psychotherapy sessions. And let us hope that this doesn’t get worse before it gets better.”_

_“I have faith that it will get better. She is a sweet child, has a good heart. I know that it will lead her down the right path in the end.”_

_\---_

“You’d better have a really good fucking reason for dragging me out of bed at sunrise, or I’ll pop your head like a zit,” you snarled, glaring up at Bucky Barnes when he opened his door.

The man blinked, surprise and confusion radiating off him.

“Wh…?” he mumbled, eyes still cloudy from exhaustion and long hair a mess.

“You texted me and said to come over like an hour ago. That it was urgent.” Eyes narrowing, you tried to peer around his broad frame. “Not seeing any emergency worthy of dragging me out of bed this early.”

“I didn’t…” Bucky looked confused for a moment before realization dawned on him and he sighed, running a hand over his face. “Oh, god.”

“You know what?” You held up your hands, mood darkening even further. “I don’t want to know. I only got a couple hours of sleep before your text woke me up. Fuck me for wanting to be helpful for once in my life, I guess.”

You started to turn, ready to walk away and make peace with the fact that your day had been ruined before it even started. But cold metal fingers wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. The sudden touch made you flinch, your skin crawling. Just as soon as he’d grabbed you, Bucky let go, eyes wide.

“Sorry, just—” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair to try and smooth it out. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what exactly happened—” _lie_ “—but at least let me give you some coffee and breakfast. As an apology for making you come all the way out here.”

Your first gut reaction to the offer was to tell him to go to hell. Enough time had already been wasted, and you had your own responsibilities, your own job that you had to do. Why the hell would you waste even more time on this? On someone whose presence still put you on edge? But on the other hand… Free food was free food. You didn’t have any cereal at home and if you wanted to have anything to eat, you’d have to pick it up on the way back. Because cooking? Not really your thing. Rubbing at your wrist, you stared at him for a moment longer just so you could watch him squirm.

“Fine,” you finally said. “But you’ll still owe me.”

Visibly relieved, he pushed the door to his apartment open further, stepped aside to let you in. You hesitated for one moment longer, deeply uncertain about whether you’d made the right decision, before your stomach growled and you stepped inside. Alpine immediately came up to greet you, purring as she wound around your ankles and Bucky closed the door behind him. Tossing your bag aside, you crouched to pet the cat, letting her rub up against your fingers. When Bucky walked past, you felt a wave of unease off of him, his expression pinched.

“Hey,” you said, stopping him in his tracks. “What really happened?”

“Did you read my mind?” he asked, sighing and leaning against the arm chair.

“Not purposely. Your thoughts are just…” You hesitated for a moment, meeting his eyes. A stormy expression to match the dark rumble of his mind. “They’re loud. Like they want to be heard.”

“Maybe it’s just because you’ve already been in my head.” Bucky tried to smile, but it was half-hearted and didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Haven’t run away screaming yet.”

“That ‘yet’ is doing some pretty heavy lifting.” Your dry laugh was humorless as you stood, shoving your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. “So, you gonna share?”

Bucky frowned, left hand clenching and unclenching, the mechanical joints whirring softly. Alpine had trotted over to him, purring quietly as she wound around his ankles. Taking another deep breath, he looked away from you, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Patience was not your thing, but you grasped onto it, knowing that snapping would not get you what you wanted. The pause felt like it went on for hours, the awkward tension in the room almost unbearable. After several more measured breaths, he looked back up at you, struggled to keep eye contact as he spoke.

“I… still have episodes, sometimes. Where I wake up and I can’t even recognize my own apartment, my own bedroom. I panic, I freak out, I lose time. They’re not as frequent as they used to be, and I usually keep them quiet. But I must have found my phone in the panic and texted the person with the conversation at the top.” Bucky sighed, shoulders slumping with invisible weight, back bending under it. “It’s usually Sam who gets those, and he knows to just call and talk me through them. But since I’d texted you yesterday about a session, I got you instead.”

“Bucky…” You watched his expression, watched as he tried to school it into something guarded. But the pain was still there. “Am I making you worse?”

“What?” He frowned, visibly recoiling. “No. No, it’s not… You’re not making me worse. Remembering these things, unravelling whatever’s been stuck in the back of my mind where I can’t reach it, it’s helping. And I’ve still got my medicine, my therapists, my work—”

“When was the last time you had one of these episodes?” you interrupted.

“What?”

“I know you heard me. When was the last time you had an episode?”

“A few months ago.” His voice was soft, barely audible.

“So, the last time you had one was a few months ago, and then I come in and mess with your head for a couple of weeks. Now you’re having an episode again. I feel like there’s probably a correlation here,” you pointed out.

“Look, something I’ve been told so many times before is that things get worse before they get better. That’s all this is. A temporary set-back. Please. I… I’m getting these memories back that I never thought I would.” Bucky stepped close to you, quiet desperation in his voice. “Don’t pull the plug. Not yet.”

A good person would have refused. They would have seen the bags under his eyes, the way his fingers were still shaking, the distance in his gaze and refused to keep going. It was clear that old wounds were being torn open, and the negatives were beginning to outweigh the positives. From the things you’d seen, the horrors he’d committed and the way he’d been treated by his handlers, he’d already been through too much. Had himself stripped of his identity, his humanity, everything. No dignity. Treated as a tool to be tossed aside once a newer, better one came along. Putting him back through it all in an attempt to undo what lingering influence remained seemed cruel.

But you were curious. And some part of you thought it was a necessary part of his redemption. To face it all over again, come to terms with it.

“If this happens again, we stop,” you finally said. “If you start having delusions or hallucinations, if it looks like some of my mind is crossing over into yours, we stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“Psychic contamination.” You pulled your hands out of your pockets, folded your arms tightly over your chest. “I’m not just looking at your memories. I’m sharing my own, too.”

Memories after the school, of course. Nothing as extreme as what you saw in his mind. But he’d seen the brief aftermath of your meltdown, felt the pain you had when you’d come to in that hospital bed, the burns on your back and your crushed leg. Burning pain that had faded to aches in the past year, that were kept under control with physical therapy and painkillers. You didn’t trust him with the school, didn’t trust him with the events that had led to your departure. Not yet. Probably not ever.

“I think it’s best if I just pick through your brain for a while,” you continued. “If you’re really that curious about my life, you can just ask.”

“You didn’t mention contamination earlier,” he said, frown deepening.

“I wasn’t worried about it. But if all of this is potentially triggering flashbacks for you, putting you in a vulnerable mental state, then it may be a problem. Heavy emphasis on ‘may’. I just wanna avoid any future issues,” you explained. “I’m not gonna pass along any of my various mental illnesses to you. But I just… I want to be safe.”

“Well…” He paused, eyes narrowed. Reading you, your expression. Suspicious. “You know more about this than I do. I’ll trust you on it.”

“Great. Now, can I please have some fucking coffee? I need to be caffeinated if we’re gonna keep talking about this stuff.”

“Right, of course.” Bucky seemed to relax at the change of conversation. Not that you could blame him. Talking about it, about his problems and your own, had set you on edge. “This way. How do you take your coffee?”

“Two creams, two sugars.” You followed him into the kitchen, watching your step to make sure you didn’t accidentally kick Alpine, who wanted to keep rubbing up against your ankles. “Just take out the milk and sugar and I can dose it myself.”

“Alright,” Bucky said, holding his hands up with a light chuckle, although it still sounded strained. “Sugar’s in the smallest container there, you can see the label. And milk…” After pulling out eggs and a container of sausage patties, he set down a carton of milk next to them. “There you go.”

Spotting the coffee pot, you let out a soft grunt of thanks when he set down a mug and spoon for you as well. Dumping the milk and sugar in first, you poured yourself the coffee and started to turn to walk out to the living room again when he spoke.

“You keep mentioning work and projects, but I don’t think you’ve ever told me what it is that you actually do,” he said, glancing at you as he placed a few sausages in a pan. The click of the gas stove made you flinch, a flash of your meltdown, before you shook your head and grounded yourself again.

“I work in programming. Machine learning, developing AI mostly. But I do other data science, too. Side programs, that kinda thing.” Realizing you couldn’t just walk away from the conversation, you leaned back against the counter.

“Oh.” Bucky blinked, the sausage sizzling in the pan. “Do you… like it?”

“I do.” An awkward, stilted conversation. But you supposed you had to give him credit for trying. “Computers are easier to deal with than people. If there’s a bug in the code, if there’s something wrong, there’s always a fix. Sometimes it’s a little harder to find, but in the end, there’s always a solution. The money’s pretty good, too.”

Another moment of awkward silence, Bucky struggling to fill the gaps and respond. Like he was still uncertain how to carry on conversations with people, his shoulders tensed as he cracked eggs into the pan as well. Deciding to show him a bit of mercy, you took a long sip of your coffee before speaking.

“We learned about Captain America and his Howling Commandos in school, you know.” When he turned his head, looking vaguely alarmed, you grinned. “There were a lot of kids named Bucky during the big baby boom in the ‘50s, and some parents still name their kids Bucky. The long hair and beard are a good disguise, but I’ve seen enough of your memories to connect the dots. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, Captain America’s childhood friend, Howling Commando and sniper. The only one of the Commandos to be killed in action.”

“You’re… awfully calm about that information,” he said, looking away to flip the sausage. “I was born in 1917. I’m technically over a hundred years old. A literal artifact.”

“The most normal person in my childhood was a man who could shoot lasers out of his eyes and was in a polyamorous relationship with a woman who taught me how to use my psionic powers and had been possessed by a cosmic entity and a functionally immortal man with knife hands and adamantium bonded to his skeleton.” Your smile only grew as he turned to look at you once more, expression incredulous. “My tolerance for weird nonsensical bullshit is pretty high.”

“Sometimes, it’s hard to tell when you’re joking and when you’re being serious,” he told you, popping a few slices of bread in a smaller pan to toast.

“Good.” Letting out a soft snort, you set down your coffee and folded your arms. “That’s how I like it.”

Rolling his eyes, he plated up the sausage and eggs, tossing the toast on them as well before handing you one of the plates. Picking up your mug, you let him lead you to a little table just outside the kitchen. Before you had even picked up your fork, he was already devouring his breakfast. Considering that he had just given you free food you weren’t about to complain about his manners. You simply ate at a slower pace, quietly observing that he’d given himself about twice the amount of food. The little snippets you’d learned about the metabolic effects of the serum used on Steve Rogers in your college biology course seemed to apply to him as well. Mopping up the runny yolk of the egg with your piece of toast, you watched him slow down, eyes turned down and away from you as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Hey, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry.” You shrugged, speaking through a mouthful of food yourself and leaning back in your chair. “Been a while since I’ve had anything other than takeout, cereal, or junk food.”

“No time?”

“Not a good cook.” Maybe it was watching how embarrassed he looked after being caught eating wildly, his quiet admission of a deep vulnerability, that had you feeling just a bit more at ease with him. Or maybe it was simply because he seemed to struggle with human interaction just as much as you did. “Any time I try, I either burn everything or give myself food poisoning. Or both. Never could quite get the hang of it.”

“That’s why you’re so short.” When you glared at him, Bucky simply gave you a small, exhausted grin. “Poor nutrition.”

“Wow, fuck you, too,” you grumbled. Sipping at your coffee, you noticed him eyeing the last bit of your food and rolled your eyes, shoving the plate towards him. “Go ahead, big guy. You clearly need the nutrition more than my tiny self.”

Ignoring the jab, he ate the last slice of toast, watched you as you finished off the coffee. You still felt that familiar crawling of your skin under his gaze, uncomfortable with being observed so closely. Setting down the mug with a bit more force than was really necessary, you placed your hands down on the table and stood. Alpine immediately jumped up to settle in the chair, blinking sleepily up at you. Bucky looked up at you with a similar expression, mug frozen halfway to his lips.

“I’ll accept the food and coffee as an adequate apology for dragging me out of bed before I had to get up for work. But remember what I said. This happens again or you get worse, this whole thing is over.” You paused, taking in the slumped way he sat, the bags under his eyes. “And get some sleep. You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks,” he mumbled. But he stood as well, setting down his coffee. The glint of his metal hand caught your eye, the sleeves of the white henley he wore rolled up enough to expose the joints of the prosthetic arm. “Look… I really am sorry. For waking you up, for bothering you with all of this.”

“Well.” You looked up at him properly, shoving your hands in your pockets. “I got myself into it. Digging around in your head the way I am, all of that. Just don’t make a habit of it, and I won’t go all Scanners on you.”

Bucky blinked, looking confused.

“What?”

“Scanners.” You stared up at him in horror as he continued to stare blankly back, clearly not getting what you were trying to say. “Oh my god, you’ve never seen Scanners.”

“I… don’t know what that is,” he admitted.

“It’s a movie.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “Like a classic. You’ve seriously never seen it?”

“I’m not very well versed in pop culture after ’44,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “Trust me, you’re not the first to give me hell about it.”

“Okay, but like… you’ve at least seen The Thing, right?” you asked. When he only gave you a blank stare back, you pressed forward. “Halloween? The Howling? A Nightmare on Elm Street? Scream? The Shining? Suspiria?”

“I haven’t ever heard of any of those.” Bucky shook his head, looking vaguely amused. “I caved and watched The Manchurian Candidate since no one would shut up about it. Terminator was pretty good, too.”

“Okay, points for Terminator,” you said. “But you seriously need an education on the classics of horror cinema. This is painful and embarrassing for you.”

“Tell you what. You write down a list for me, I’ll put them at the top of my list. I’ve got a friend who’s been bugging me about All the President’s Men, but I can make room for the others.” When Bucky grinned, there wasn’t the usual shadow to it. Just a genuine joy and curiosity.

It made you feel… strange. Looking away so you wouldn’t have to unpack that particular feeling, you located a pen and tapped it against the table.

“Get me some paper,” you said.

Bucky did so quickly, disappearing down the hall for a moment before coming back with a journal, turned to a fresh page. Snatching it from him, you sat down on the arm of his couch, writing down a quick list. Certainly not a comprehensive one. But if you were going to be spending an extended amount of time with the man, digging around in his brain and attempting to make his strained conversations less awkward, then you could at least have _something_ to talk about with the movies you wrote down. You turned back to him and tossed the journal to him, which he deftly caught.

“That’s just to start,” you told him. “Horror isn’t your thing… well, we can try to find you something else to get you cultured, I guess. But if this…” you waved your hand in a vague motion in the air, “…thing is gonna work, you’ve at least gotta watch these. They’re some of my favorites.”

_Favorites, her favorites, don’t screw this up, don’t—_

You shut out the stream of thoughts that you picked up from him, not wanting to go any further. That wasn’t something you wanted to listen to, given how quickly it could go back to being fractured. Instead, you went to retrieve your bag.

“Which should I start with?” he asked, drawing your attention back to him.

Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you regarded him for a moment. Journal clutched tightly in his left hand, the mechanical joints whirring softly, long hair still a mess, eyes meeting your own. A man out of time, still trying to grapple with his new identity while dealing with the fallout of two past ones. No doubt keeping a low profile to keep from being snatched up by groups who had ulterior motives for keeping a former fist of HYDRA in their custody. Although you knew the danger he posed, knew that continuing to be tied to him was stupid and would lead towards destruction… That goddamn kicked puppy look was really getting to you.

“Scanners,” you told him, “that’s why I put it at the top of the list. Next time I make a joke, maybe it’ll actually land. Made me look at my own powers… differently.” You started to turn away but stopped, jabbing a finger at him. “And don’t quit fifteen minutes in after the big kill happens. Actually watch the whole thing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky’s smile was still a bit strained as he watched you go to the door, setting the journal down on the couch. “I’ll try to educate myself before group.”

Right. You had group in just a few days. Opening the door, you gave him a small nod. You weren’t sure what exactly had you hesitating over and over again, but you turned back after just a few steps in the hall. As you suspected, he’d come out into the doorway to watch you, lips twitching into an embarrassed half-grin when you caught him. With a small sigh, you gave him a wave.

“See you at group, Bucky. Consider us even now.”

With that, you turned and walked back to your car, a strange feeling in your chest as you pulled back out onto the road and headed back home. You chalked it up to still being tired and shoved it in a corner with all the other boxed up feelings you simply didn’t have time to deal with.

\---

Bucky Barnes didn’t show up to group therapy.

That wasn’t necessarily an uncommon thing. People came and went, even in the short time that you had been there. You weren’t Bucky’s babysitter, and you certainly weren’t his friend either. But not having him there felt… weird. _Wrong._ It was likely just because you’d gotten so used to his presence, had reached into his mind just enough times for it to become familiar. A grounding thing, amongst all the other screaming thoughts that you were forced to put up with. Slumped in your chair, arms tightly folded over your stomach and waiting for the hour to end, you tried to figure out whether you were worried or annoyed. You were leaning a bit more towards annoyed. If he said that he’d see you at group, then you expected to see him at group. Trust issues rearing their ugly head yet again. If it had happened a week before, you would have just shrugged it off and gone about your business.

But now? Now, you’d actually _opened up_ to him outside of sharing a few memories. He’d opened up to you, too, trusted you enough to admit the truth about his flashback. And even though he’d said that he’d texted you just because you were the first contact, you wondered if it also hadn’t been his mind subconsciously reaching out to a familiar touch. There was some form of trust, even if it was fragile, newborn and paper-thin. Foot tapping a nervous rhythm, you shoved a particularly loud string of thoughts from one of the survivors of the triskelion crash ( _they’re going to fall from the sky again, it's only a matter of time, they only made sure we can’t see them until it’s too late, can’t let them find me, can’t let them)_ out of your head. Kept your eyes on the clock, each torturous movement of the hands indicating seconds passing by feeling like an eternity. When they finally reached the end of the hour, you didn’t even wait for the therapist to end the session before you were grabbing your bag, the chorus of farewells echoing behind you as you rushed up the stairs and outside.

There was no Bucky to take you out for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, so what the hell was the point in sticking around? You didn’t want any of the others to get ideas and think that you were willing to spend time outside of group with them. It was bad enough that you were spending so much time with Barnes, stepping out of the carefully curated normality you’d built for yourself over the last year in DC. Digging your keys out of your bag, you made it only a few steps before someone grabbed you by the waist, their hand covering your mouth to stifle the startled yelp you let out as they pulled you into a shadowy corner of the building. Fear coursed ice cold through you, old training and instinct kicking in. You jammed your elbow into the gut of whoever had grabbed you, stomping down on their toes at the same time. There was a muffled grunt, the grip loosening for a moment before your attacker spun you around.

“Andy, it’s me. It’s me, god… you hit hard…”

“Bucky, what the _fuck,”_ you hissed, pushing away from him and trying to calm your racing heart. You were still shaking, still terrified. “You can’t just grab people and pull them into dark, shady places. I could have _killed you._ I’m still considering it.”

“I’m sorry.” Although you couldn’t see him properly, could really only make out the glint of his metal arm and part of the dark outfit he was wearing, he sounded apologetic. It did nothing to lessen your anger, but at least he made an attempt. “Look, I would’ve just come up and said hi, but—”

“Why weren’t you at group?” you demanded, stepping closer to him, eyes squinted to try to see better in the dark. “You said you’d be there.”

“I would have gone, but… something came up.” Bucky started to lift his hand, but thought better of it and shoved it in his pockets instead. He kept his voice low, so quiet you had to strain to hear him. “Look, I wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t urgent. But I need you to do as much work in my head as fast as possible.”

“What?” You took a step back, gripping your keys tighter. Scoffing, you shook your head. “If you think that you can scare the shit out of me and then just demand a huge favor, that’s not—”

“Andromeda.” He reached out, grabbed you by the shoulders. When he stepped into the dim, flickering light of the streetlamp, your breath caught. There was a bandage above one of his eyes, bruising to his jaw, a nasty gash that ran from one corner of his mouth that had been stitched up. He looked like hell, and there was a desperation in his eyes that frightened you. “Someone is coming for me. More than one person. They know about the trigger words. _I can’t let them turn me into him again.”_

Out of curiosity, you’d found a few video clips floating around of the Winter Solider and watched them, pretty shortly after that first session. They’d terrified you, even those grainy, blurry clips. Shot on cell phones by terrified civilians when he’d surfaced in DC years ago. The man had moved like a predator, sure in everything he did. If someone could beat the hell out of him, out of a man who had defeated even Captain America in a fight, you didn’t blame him for being scared. You were _terrified._ This wasn’t something you wanted to be dragged into. It wasn’t your fight, and you had tried for so long to keep out of trouble, even though it had plagued your every step for so long. Bucky must have sensed your fear, seen the way you hesitated, because he leaned closer, hands gripping your shoulders just a fraction tighter.

“I swear on my life that you won’t get involved in what’s coming past getting that damn phrase out of my head. I will keep you safe and out of the line of fire. If you never want to see me again after this, then you’ll never see me or hear about me ever again. But I… please.” His voice shook, expression shattered as he held your gaze. “Please. I will get down on my knees and beg you if I need to. But I can’t let them turn me into what I was again.”

God. You wanted to tell him to go to hell, to deal with it on his own. But saying no to him when he was so desperate, when he was looking at you with those big, sad eyes… You would have felt like an absolute monster. More than that, you reasoned that it was important to keep him from becoming that weapon. To protect yourself, to protect other people like you. Because if he did fall under the control of some shady organization again, the first people they’d come gunning for were the ones that posed a threat. And with mutants becoming more and more visible with each passing day…

Although you didn’t want to, you would step into the line of fire, so long as it meant keeping other mutants, the kids who were still at the school, safe.

“I can’t promise that I can get the trigger phrase out of your head,” you said slowly, shrugging off his hands and gripping the strap of your bag tightly. “But I can at least make sure that it won’t be used against you until it can be removed properly. It’s a lot of work, and I still have to be careful. If I’m not, I could trigger the programming or put you into a coma. Render you braindead.” You took a deep breath, still looking him in the eye. “How long do we have?”

“Three days, at most. I did my best to shake them, but…” He sighed, slumping and running a hand through his hair. “They’ll find me. Now that they’re on me, they’ll find me.”

Three days was not ideal. Certainly not enough time to pull anything carefully out of his head that had been so deeply engrained. And it barely gave you any time to set up blocks around it, tricks to avoid the programming getting triggered. If you were going to do it, you’d need to take off time from work, plunge yourself into his head for hours at a time. Risky, the potential for one of you to contaminate the other far too high for your liking. But you hadn’t said no. And you had all but agreed. Catching sight of more bandages peeking out from his collar, you desperately tried to keep a tight lid on your fear. All fear did was trigger the potential for an episode, hallucinations and delusions that you couldn’t risk. Swallowing a thick lump in your throat, you spun your keys on one shaking finger, trying to maintain some illusion of indifference in the face of sheer terror.

“Who are these people?” you asked, jerking your head towards your car before taking a few steps back. He picked up on what you were saying non-verbally, pulling up the hood of his coat before following a step behind you. “How did they even find you to start with?”

“Been trying to stay off the radar, but there was some activity that caught my attention. Me and a couple others went to check it out that night after you’d come over, found them first. They were out in the Midwest, we had a fast way to get back here and cover our tracks. But I’ve left enough traces just from living here for them to eventually find me.” Bucky paused when you got to the car, doors unlocked. Looked around, the spike in his paranoia and fear hitting you hard, triggering your own and making your hands shake all over again. “Let’s drive for a bit before we get to the first question.”

Oh god. Oh god, it was the government, wasn’t it? Was he on some watchlist? Maybe you hadn’t dug around enough, because you couldn’t remember if he was an actively wanted fugitive or not. Fully panicking, you put on some music to try and calm down, some nice smooth jazz that wouldn’t trigger your anxiety. Picking up on his thoughts, you turned towards the building he lived in, twitching any time you saw another pair of headlights or a figure in the rear view mirror. You didn’t like the paranoia, didn’t like the feeling of unreality that came with it. Once you got where you were going, you needed to take your medicine and drink a gallon of water to try to calm down. If you were going to be in his head, the last thing either of you needed was for you to be actively freaking the fuck out.

Halfway to his apartment, Bucky finally spoke, sunk low in the seat and eyes sharp on the road ahead.

“The people after me are like me. Two of them. They won’t stop until they’ve either completed their mission or they’ve been neutralized,” he said, an edge to his voice that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

“What… what do you mean, they’re like you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level and calm.

“They’re the other Winter Soldiers.” He looked over when you stopped at a red light, met your frightened gaze. “The last two left. Elite. Ruthless. Never had the programming put in their heads. So they’re fully aware.”

“How…” You startled when the light turned green, pulling forward again and trying to focus on the road. “How do you know that they’ll trigger your programming? Why not just kill you and get it over with?”

“Because they’ll want to cause as much destruction as possible. I’m still useful, so long as they can control me. It’s possible they’re working for someone else, getting their hands dirty for someone with an interest in the old program.” Bucky took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “And they have the book.”

The book. You knew the one he was talking about, with its red leather cover and black star symbol, a guide to everything that was the Winter Soldier. You’d seen it in his memories, picked up on its importance and use fairly quickly. After all, each handler had been holding it, reading from it. Tense silence fell as you absorbed that information, pulled into a guest parking spot at the brownstone he lived in. Engine still running, you closed your eyes and slumped forward, forehead resting against the steering wheel.

“Oh god,” you whimpered. “We’re fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the most egregious thing the Civil War movie did, in my humble opinion, was introduce the other winter soldiers (a MUCH MORE interesting plot point) and just...... kill them off screen. so i'm fixing it. take note, russos. 
> 
> thanks as always for reading. love y'all.


	4. White Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i'll wait in this place where the sun never shines  
>  wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves_

**72 HOURS REMAINING**

“I didn’t think there’d be an audience,” you mumbled, seated in the middle of Bucky’s living room, Alpine curled up asleep in your lap.

“Just pretend like we’re not even here,” Natasha Romanoff said, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table that had been moved to the edge of the room. Her mind was distressingly quiet, her sharp eyes always sparking with some cold amusement when you glanced over at her. “Not like it’ll be much fun to watch two people who are completely motionless, anyways.”

“We’ll be busy watching the area for any crazy Russian super soldier assassins.” Sam Wilson smiled when you turned your attention to him, sitting up on the kitchen table with a beer in his hand. “Getting performance anxiety?”

“Hardly,” you muttered, shifting on the couch cushion you sat on. “Just… didn’t think there’d be others around.”

“If we’re both going to be in a trance and totally disconnected from the world, we need people watching our backs.” Bucky walked in from the hall, tossing down a pillow on the floor near your feet and sighing. Although he’d laid out a yoga mat to lay down on, you were still a little concerned about how much his back was going to hurt when you both woke up. “Nat and Sam are the best. Annoying, sometimes, but they’ll keep us safe.”

“Wow, high praise,” Sam chuckled, taking a swig of his beer. “Excuse me while I faint from receiving a compliment.”

“Shut up, Wilson,” Bucky grumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. “You better not drink the rest of the beers in my fridge.”

“No promises.” Grinning again, Sam let out a loud laugh, leaning back on one hand and kicking his feet. “You owe me, Barnes.”

“If you’re gonna be watching our backs, should you be drinking?” you asked, pulling out your phone and setting up an alarm. With the mental scars you still had, you needed to make sure not to stay in the trance for too long, give yourself breaks so you didn’t push yourself too far. Even the eight hours you were giving yourself would have been a lot at your peak, when you were training every day. “Don’t know how useful a tipsy guy is gonna be in a fight.”

“No worries, Haller,” Natasha chimed in, tipping her head to the side and giving you a sly smile. “Chances are pretty low that they’ll show up before you wake back up. He’s mostly just here to keep me company.”

“And I could still take on Barnes even after five drinks,” Sam said, ignoring the glare that Bucky shot his way. “No safer hands to be in.”

“I feel very safe,” you lied, rolling your eyes and setting your phone down next to you. “Okay, Bucky. You ready to get to work?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he mumbled, laying down on the yoga mat, adjusting the pillow beneath his head and letting out a long sigh.

Not that you blamed him. You ran through your own internal checklist: you’d taken your evening round of medications, had eaten some leftover mac and cheese that Bucky heated up, drunk a couple glasses of water. You’d already called your boss (‘family emergency’ you’d told him, ‘not sure if grandpa’s gonna make it and I want to be there’. You almost felt bad about the lie when he’d been so understanding and given you an entire week off) so you didn’t have to worry about missed calls about why the hell you weren’t logged in remotely when you woke back up. All your ducks in a row, so to speak. Although you were still a little freaked out, still nervous about what you were about to do and whether or not you were going to have superpowered assassins show up at your door once this was all over, you were calmer than you had been. Less twitchy, able to breathe evenly, your hands no longer shaking.

Taking a deep breath, you shifted your little cushion seat closer to Bucky’s head, settling so you were sitting cross-legged. Alpine let out a little mewl of complaint when you removed her from your lap, but quickly got over it by going over to get pets from Natasha instead. Slowly exhaling, you let your fingertips press against his temples, frowning when he flinched.

“You good?” you asked, leaning forward so that you could meet his eyes.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, shifting a bit and folding his hands over his stomach. “Sorry, just… nervous.”

“Wow, you’re nervous about letting someone you don’t know that well do a deep dive into your head and set up psychic blocks in your head?” you grinned, tapping your index fingers against his temple. “That’s _normal,_ dude. Just relax as much as you can. I’ll put you in the trance first. It’ll be just like going to sleep.”

“This… this is gonna work, right?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Sure hope so. I’m gonna do my best.” You took another deep breath, centering yourself. Once more dredging up all those old techniques you’d learned and trying to shake off the rust. “Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing.”

Bucky still looked uncertain, but did as you asked, closing his eyes and taking measured breaths. Meditation breathing, his body slowly beginning to relax. Once his shoulders finally lowered and relaxed, you glanced up at Sam and Natasha.

“If something does go wrong, wake me up first,” you said softly, not wanting to jerk Bucky out of his relaxed state. “Otherwise… see you in eight hours.”

Sam gave you a little mock salute, Natasha nodded and gave you a barely-there smile. Although you still had your concerns about falling into a trance around two people that you didn’t know, two total strangers, you didn’t have much of a choice. You’d just have to trust that Bucky’s own trust wasn’t misplaced. Closing your eyes, you let a bit of your power bleed through your fingertips, warm and fizzing. You could feel Bucky’s mind slowly give in to your coaxing, the shift in his mind as he entered a dreaming state, the right neurons firing and the right chemicals being activated. A rapid transition into REM sleep, his body unresponsive while his mind was highly active and more prone to dreams. There was a gentle pull from him, his mind calling to yours as you felt your own body begin to slump. Still conscious, not quite dreaming in the way he was. But your mind, your self, bled into his through your fingertips, reality bleeding away as you dove into his dreaming mind.

_A blizzard raged around you, drowning out the landscape of his mind in a blanket of violent white. The wind pulled at your clothes, your hair, chapped at your skin and set a chill deep in your bones, snow sticking to your skin. As quickly as you could, you adapted, gave yourself a thick winter coat and gloves, a warm scarf to wrap around your face, the hood to the jacket fur lined and pulled as far up as it could go. Boots crunching in the snow, sinking down to the ankle, you fought through the blizzard, eyes desperately searching for any trace of Bucky. The howling wind drowned out any other noises, fought back against you as you tried to reach out and find Bucky, would not let you calm the storm. Jaw clenched and dream legs already tried and sore from trekking through thick snow, you searched and searched until, finally, you found the first trace of him._

_Blood on the snow, deep red and smeared in a thick trail._

_Although a large part of you hoped that it wasn’t his, that you wouldn’t find him mangled in his own mind, you also weren’t certain you needed another reminder of the carnage he was capable of. Bracing yourself, you followed the trail of blood. As you walked, the storm began to calm, going from a raging blizzard to a gentle flurry, the scream of the wind replaced by an eerie stillness that was leagues worse. No longer obscured by the white out, you realized that you were at the bottom of a great chasm, a frozen river running alongside you and tall trees bare of any vegetation, skeletal and encased in ice, looming and grim. Brushing back the hood of the jacket, you pulled the scarf down and away from your face when you finally reached the end of the blood trail and saw him._

_“I always fall.” Bucky did not look up at you when he spoke. “Always.”_

_This was not the Bucky that you had met, not the Winter Soldier that you had seen in a few fragmented nightmares. The man propped up against a great, knotted tree trunk was Sergeant Barnes. Dark hair cut short and slicked back, only a shadow of stubble on his jaw, grey eyes dark when they met your own. Where his left arm had once been was only a mangled, bloody stump, lazily dripping blood to the snow beneath him. Although it was only a dream, you still pulled the scarf from around your neck, knelt in the snow beside him and tied it tight just above the massive gaping wound. Dream logic pulled through for you, the bleeding stopping shortly after. When you looked back up at Bucky, his expression was strange. Caught somewhere between pain and something you didn’t recognize on him. An emotion that didn’t resonate in the space around you._

_“How often do you dream of this place?” you asked, settling more comfortably on your knees._

_“All the time,” he admitted, the soft sigh that escaped him curling into steam in the chilly winter air. “It’s where HYDRA found me. One of their Soviet agents found me where I’d fallen, brought me to them. This is where it all started.”_

_“The death of one self and the birth of another.” You watched him closely, tried to reconcile this image of a fallen soldier, someone you’d read about in history class, to the man he would become. It made sense, in a terrible way. The first domino to fall, setting off a chain of events. “Does anyone ever find you here in your dreams?”_

_“No.” Bucky let out a bitter little chuckle, head falling back to rest against the tree, staring at the grey sky that stretched endlessly above him. “When it’s just this place in my dreams, when it’s not just a quick flash before the real nightmares start, no one ever finds me. I just sit here, all alone.”_

_You weren’t sure what to say to that. That you were sorry? That you knew what it felt like, to dream of a place where you were alone in your pain, no one coming to find you? Both were true, but neither felt like the right response. Instead, you tried to smile, even though it felt more like a grimace._

_“Well, you’re not alone now. I found you,” you said, brushing snow from your hair. “Try to remember that next time you have this dream.”_

_“Yeah.” He continued to stare up at the sky for a while longer before finally looking back at you. “This dream isn’t helping you much, is it?”_

_“It is.” You got to your feet, holding out a hand to him. “Your mind is showing me what it wants to. Nothing is unimportant. I mean, is it gonna help me keep you from having your programming retriggered? Not sure. But it’ll help somewhere down the line. Now c’mon. There’s more to see.”_

_Bucky stared at your hand for a long moment before finally taking it. With an ease you knew you would not have in real life, you pulled him to his feet. He swayed for a moment, had to brace himself against the tree. But you were patient, knew that rushing would get you nowhere. Even though you had to do everything you could for him in such a short amount of time, pushing and rushing would only result in sloppy work, in mistakes being made that you couldn’t afford. Once he regained his balance, gathered himself enough to stand straight, you held your hand out to him once more._

_“I’m fine,” he started to say, “I don’t need—”_

_“I know you don’t need help,” you interrupted, rolling your eyes. “That’s not why. It’s easier if I keep a connection with you. It’s easy to get lost, to lose track in a dream. If you keep a connection with me, neither of us will wander too far. I have no idea how long it actually took me to find you the first time, and I don’t want to repeat that and lose more time. Just hold my hand, dude.”_

_There was another pause, longer this time. You wondered if you were just going to have to take his hand yourself, shove through the awkwardness to get to business. But he eventually took your hand, his fingers curling loosely around yours. Another reminder of how small you were and how large he was, even in his mind, his hand dwarfing yours. Through your gloves, you couldn’t feel any warmth. It seemed to have been sucked right out of him by the wind and the snow, a terrible cold radiating where there should have been a spark of heat._

_Setting aside your thoughts, you walked slowly with him. In his current state, there was no reason to rush. Each step was slow and methodical as the frozen river began to fade, turning into white noise as you made your way through his dreams. The snow briefly picked up once more, his grip tightening momentarily on your hand before you pushed through the worst of it, a terrible stillness falling around you once more. A bunker stood before you, half-hidden in the snow and obviously abandoned. The great metal doors were open just a crack as you both approached. Bucky let go of your hand, and when you turned to him, his appearance had changed._

_The Winter Soldier stood next to you, expression cold as he stared at the doors. The bloody stump was now a gleaming metal prosthetic, red star high on his bicep bright as fresh-spilled blood. A cold burst of nervous fear shot through you, eyes wide as you regarded him. His long hair was tangled, unkempt, the dark circles under his eyes heavy and speaking of an unending exhaustion when he turned to look down at you. There was no aggression in his gaze, no killing intent. Just a blank stare, one you’d seen in your own reflection so many times before._

_“This is where they kept me,” he told you, voice low. Rough from long bouts of disuse and each word seeming to take a great amount of effort. “In Siberia. Kept in cryostasis when I wasn’t needed for a mission.”_

_“This is where they programmed you, too, isn’t it?” you asked._

_Instead of answering, he stepped forward, pulling open the doors the rest of the way and moving inside. Knowing that you couldn’t hesitate, you followed him, jogging to keep up with his long-legged strides. The concrete floor was covered in a fine layer of dust and grime, the plate metal walls and doors rusting at the edges. No sign of any life, alone in this corner of his mind just as you had been in the first. Bucky reached a large set of double doors and pried them open, the joints in his prosthetic whirring with effort, muscles bulging in his other arm and a small grunt coming from him. A feat of super human strength, done with so little effort. He ripped the doors open, tore them from their hinges, a great metal shriek echoing through the silent halls that made you wince._

_But he did not go in first. Instead, he turned to you, grey eyes seeming black in the shadows, the flickering lights only casting further darkness instead of illuminating it. Taking a deep breath, you stepped through the open doorway and into the shadows waiting for you. The space was more of a large, open chamber than a room, filled with old technology and equipment, a large chair that was similar to the one you’d seen in the first memory Bucky showed you sitting in the middle of the room. There were also cryochambers, three lining each wall. All of them were empty, although one still stood open, the yellow light inside of it flickering in an eerie, unstable pattern. Each step you took seemed to echo in the space, although the sound was distant. Faded, as if heard underwater._

_“This is where they made me into the Winter Soldier.” His approach had been silent, voice so startlingly clear that you almost screamed. But you managed to only jolt in surprise, staring up at him with wide eyes. The Soldier did not look at you. All of his attention was on the chair, expression still cold, empty, and blank. “This is where I trained the other Soldiers. Where I trained many other assets.”_

_“This place looks abandoned,” you said, voice soft. Not wanting to startle him, to trigger something in the Soldier that would undo the progress he’d made before you’d even come around. “When did they abandon it? Where did they take you?”_

_“It was abandoned when the USSR fell. Back in the early nineties. Before you were born.” The Soldier finally tore his gaze away from the chair, watched you as you approached it. “They took me where they could. Different places, wherever I was needed.”_

_You skimmed your fingertips over the chair, the surface covered in a thick layer of dust. Decades of not being used, in a state of disrepair that could not be easily fixed. A good thing. Something like the chair, like the technology that was used with it, shouldn’t have existed in the first place. The mind wasn’t something to be altered, fixed to fit the needs of another, an outside force. The damage done to Bucky was something that would take many, many years to undo, if it could even be undone at all. Some scars were permanent. But you could at least try your best to keep him from becoming a threat once more. There was a distant sound, like an echoing scream, that faded in and out as you inspected the chair, the long-dead computers and wiring around it. Old Soviet technology, as fascinating as it was terrible._

_“Where was the book kept?” you asked him._

_Even if he had never glanced inside of it, you didn’t think that his memories of it being used would be coherent enough for you to read it front to back, memorize its contents. But there had to be something from it that the Soldier remembered. Something that would help you create some separate, temporary trigger if the words were read. Something that wouldn’t force him back into the old programming. A temporary wall that could be torn back down once you were ready to tackle the roots of the poison that had been planted in his mind. Silently, he pointed to a panel in the wall, already open. You could have sworn that only moments before, it had been closed. But each mind worked differently, and you were not about to question it. Glancing at the Soldier, you waited until he gave you a small nod before you approached the book. It was smaller than you had imagined it would be. Like a journal, the leather surface smooth under your touch._

_When you opened it, the pages were all blank. Disappointing, but not entirely surprising. After all, for all their flaws, HYDRA weren’t exactly amateurs. They’d operated under the radar for decades, and letting their deadliest asset see his own operation manual was sloppy. You’d have to find the information that was inside some other way. Dig further into his mind, his dreams, his thoughts. Burrow into the shadows as much as possible. Taking a deep breath, you closed the book. There was a mechanical sound behind you, and when you turned, the chamber had changed. No longer empty, technicians working on computers that were functioning once more, dust and rust all gone. The Soldier sat in the chair, a technician lifting a wired helmet off of him, his gaze blank as he stared straight ahead. The aftermath of a wipe. His hair was damp, a bit of frost still in his unkempt beard. Freshly out of cryostasis, too. A HYDRA soldier approached, holding the book open. A handler, then. You stepped closer, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to see what was written in the book, but needing to hear the words._

_“Желание, Ржавый, Семнадцать, Рассвет, Печь, Девять, Добросердечный, Возвращение на родину, Один, Товарный вагон.” The first few words you recognized, from that first night when you’d reached out and touched his thoughts. The shadows at the corner of his mind, all tightly would around those phrases. You didn’t know Russian, didn’t understand what the words meant. But you suspected it was less about the words and more about the control that they had over the Soldier. The handler stopped in front of the Soldier, closing the book and regarding him with a cold gaze. “Солдат?”_

_“Я жду приказаний,” the Soldier replied, his eyes looking right through you._

_Invisible in his memory, you stepped closer to him. The Soldier looked exactly like the Bucky you had met, if a little more unkempt. But there was nothing in his eyes. No sign of a soul, a personality. Just the fist of HYDRA, a weapon to be used to further their agenda and nothing more. But somewhere in there was a man. Not who he had been before, but who he would become. Screaming to be let out, to regain control over himself and regain a sense of self and identity. The handler continued to speak in Russian, the conversation firmly out of your grasp. You had no idea what was being said, what orders he was getting. But the words eventually faded away into silence, the technicians and soldiers and handler disappearing. But the Soldier remained in his chair, his gaze finally focusing on your face._

_“That was in 1991,” he said, joints in his bionic arm whirring as he gripped the arm of the chair, the metal bending under the force. “I was deployed to retrieve the last known samples of the super soldier serum to bring to my handlers. Eliminated all witnesses. And it began the new program. Allowed them to make other Soldiers.”_

_“Ones that you trained.” You stepped back as he pushed himself out of the chair, watched him warily as he approached one of the empty chambers. “There are five of those cryostasis pods. You said there were only two after you. What happened to the other three?”_

_“Don’t know.” The Soldier frowned, folding his arms tightly over his chest. “Don’t think it really matters. The more immediate concern is the two that are coming. With the book in their possession. Sam and Nat are both good. But if those two get my programming activated once more, it’ll be hard even for them to subdue and contain three of us.”_

_“They’re really that good?” you asked._

_“Best of the best. Trained by me, enhanced by the serum. Still possessing their own minds, able to exhibit free will. Josef tried to lead a rebellion against our handlers, and the five of them were put on ice until a solution could be found.” He turned his cold gaze back to you. “They could have been the greatest unit HYDRA had. Could have destabilized and overthrown a nation overnight. But when the USSR dissolved and this place was abandoned, they were left behind. Forgotten. Someone must have activated them.”_

_“Or maybe the pods shut down and they were woken up completely on accident.” You gave a small shrug. “Could just be a catastrophe caused by a complete accident. Entropy is a bitch like that sometimes.”_

_“Regardless of how it happened,” the Soldier said, “we need to make sure they don’t get me. Whatever you need to do to block off the programming, do it. Whatever it takes.”_

_“Look.” You sighed, leaning against one of the pods. “I appreciate that this is time sensitive, that it’s important to you. But even under the time constraint, I have to be careful. There’s been a pretty significant amount of damage done to your mind, even with the progress you’ve made. Psychic work like this is something that has to be done cautiously. It takes time. If I rush too much, I could do more damage. Hell, I could leave you in a catatonic state or completely wipe even more of your memories if I tweak the wrong parts of your brain. Just taking something out isn’t easy. It leaves scars, takes out things that are attached to whatever I remove. The brain is an extremely delicate computer, and I don’t want to have damage done to you haunting me for the rest of my life. I’ve done enough damage. I’m done with that. We’ll need to find more memories surrounding the trigger words. If I can put in something else, wall them off temporarily…”_

_The Soldier stared at you. You stared back. You could sense the question forming in his mind, sitting at the back of his tongue. The one he’d been holding back since that first night when he met you, always swallowing it and waiting for the right time to ask. It would never be the right time, because you weren’t sure you would ever be ready to answer it. Not honestly, at least. Not without it being veiled behind the façade of a joke, one of the ones you always dropped in a dry voice, with a wry tilt to your lips. It was easier to confess when everyone was unsure of what was a joke and what was the truth. A muscle in his jaw ticked, jumping like a raw nerve. There was that distant, tinny sound of screaming again. The one that didn’t really have a concrete source, but seemed to just_ be.

_“What did you do?” he finally asked._

_Brave enough to do it in his own mind, shrouded in what he had once been. Dream bravery, always bolstering people. It was darkly hilarious. Because even if they thought their dreams protected them, they were never more vulnerable to what you could do than when you were in their mind. Not that you would tell him that. Although you held the real power in his mind, there was a part of you that was terrified of the Soldier. A part that expected his prosthetic arm to lash out, grip at your throat and squeeze, squeeze until you couldn’t breathe, until all those delicate little bones in your neck snapped under the pressure and all the life went out of you. The Soldier had done it many times before. He wouldn’t have broken a sweat doing it to you._

_“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, putting on a false front of bravery, tipping your chin up and grinning. “That’s pretty vague.”_

_“You know what I mean.” The Soldier’s face remained impassive._

_Although the Soldier’s eyes were supposed to be glassy, dark and unfocused and non-expressive, it was Bucky’s that stared you down. Seemed to cut right through to the very core of you, see the rot and weeds that festered in you. Bucky Barnes was many things, you’d learned in the short time since you’d met him. But he wasn’t stupid. It had only been a matter of time before he saw through you. With a heavy sigh, you sat on the arm of the chair, wrapped your arms around your stomach. Tried to convince yourself that you didn’t still feel sick just talking about it._

_“When I was sixteen, I started having episodes. Delusions, hallucinations. Not all the time, but enough that it was noticeable. I thought that the people who had raised me were plotting something, had been brainwashing everyone that lived in the house with us. After I had a breakdown, they started medicating me. Having me do therapeutic sessions, psychic ones. Where they could really reach into my mind, my thoughts, and help me try to rewire some of it. When I was seventeen, I started to think that the pills they were giving me were actually seeds. Planting something in me that would bloom and control me.” You snorted. “It sounds stupid and insane, but I believed it. Because the delusions were just as real as everything else. I stopped taking my pills, stopped showing up for my therapy sessions. I thought they were going to control me, because they were all scared of me. Not long before my eighteenth birthday, my… the person who was in charge of those psychic therapy sessions confronted those delusions. I thought he was triggering the seeds. I lashed out, tore up his mind so bad it left him catatonic. I was afraid that they were going to kill me for it, or punish me, lock me away and make me catatonic too. So I ran away. Got accepted to MIT with some slightly falsified applications and never looked back.”_

_When you looked back up at him, it wasn’t the Soldier standing in front of you. Just Bucky, the one you’d met, in his sweatpants and tank top, eyes sad and hair a mess._

_“Was your therapist… were they able to…?” he trailed off, uncertain how to word his question._

_But you knew what he was trying to ask._

_“I grew up in a boarding school full of people like me. There were a couple of teachers who were able to repair the damage.” You hugged yourself tighter but refused to let any emotion show on your face. “One of the men who raised me, who was like an uncle to me, sends me packages and letters sometimes. I never respond, and he doesn’t send things as frequently as he used to. But he told me that he’d recover from it. Not all at once, and there would still be some lingering damage. Just… enough.”_

_“How long did you go unmedicated?” he asked. “After you left.”_

_“Only a few weeks. They hadn’t cut off my trust fund so I was able to get to a psychiatrist and get back on the medications I needed.” Sighing, you dug the tips of your fingers hard into your side. A dull pain, but enough to give you some clarity. “I was hearing voices in my classes and I didn’t want to let my grades slip. Selfish fucking reason, I know. But it was the only thing keeping me together. Helped keep me steady afterwards, too.”_

_There was a moment of silence. After all, what did one say after getting all of that unloaded on them? Especially when the person confessing it was neck deep in their mind, capable of pulling and pushing and doing whatever they hell they wanted in their brain._

_“I tried to kill my best friend,” Bucky finally said. “Almost succeeded, too. I had a little bit of clarity. The programming was still there, and they’d done another wipe. But I could still recognize him. Couldn’t really place a name to his face, and everything was still hazy. I knew that he was important, though. I knew that I knew him. And I still tried to kill him. Only let myself fail the mission because I snapped out of it at the last minute. Doesn’t change what I did. Now that I have more of myself back, now that I can remember more about growing up with him, how close we were… It eats me up. Kills me a little more when I remember it.”_

_“Why are you telling me this?” you asked him. You knew about how the Winter Soldier had fought Captain America, after all. It had been splashed all over the news, along with the damage after what happened at the Triskelion. You’d still been in Massachusetts then, hadn’t moved to DC yet. But everyone had heard about it._

_“Because I remember every single person I’ve killed. Every high profile target. It’s all playing in the back of my mind, like my own personal reminder of every life I ruined and every win I gave to the people I fought all those years ago. People who wanted to eradicate my family.” His smile was bitter, a pained grimace. “But it’s almost killing my friend that still sticks with me like a permanent knife in my gut. We all have things we’ve done that we’re not proud of.”_

_He was trying to make you feel better, to tell you that he didn’t judge you after your confession. But it just made you feel sicker. You didn’t want pity or sympathy. It was all you’d gotten for so many years. Standing back up, you turned your back to him. Didn’t want to see whatever expression was on Bucky’s sad puppy face. Instead, you took a deep breath._

_“We need to get back to work.” Voice cold, you stared down at the chair. “I don’t want to have to put down the Soldier. Show me other times you remember the trigger phrase being used. Show me things you remember doing. And then I can try to come up with a plan to try and keep it from happening again.”_

_Silence. Stretching for long enough that you wondered if he had even heard you._

_Then technicians faded back into view, the Soldier was defrosting in his chair again, and you heard his screams in stereo._

_Later, you could apologize. But for the time being, you focused on his mind, on the little details you could pick up from each painful memory to try to use to keep him from becoming a weapon again._

_\---_

**64 HOURS REMAINING**

The alarm went off and you came back to your body in a cold rush. Your limbs felt unwieldly and heavy, your flesh and bones like a prison, after spending so long outside of it. Bucky’s eyelashes fluttered as he returned to himself and you removed your hands from his head. Your fingers shook, stomach clenching and turning.

Eight hours had been too long. You’d pushed too hard. Moving on clumsy, shaking legs, you barely made it to the bathroom and fell to your knees in front of the toilet before you began to vomit and heave. A cold sweat had formed a thin layer on your skin, hair sticking to your temples and neck as you coughed up the last bit of bile you could. Your stomach still twisted in knots, clenched like there was more to purge. Flushing, you remained collapsed on the tile floor for a moment. Your head spun, knees feeling like jelly as you pushed yourself to your feet. Washing out your mouth, spitting into the sink and bracing your hands on the edge of it, you heard his anxious, stumbling thoughts before the soft knock against the door way.

When you looked up and met his gaze in the mirror, there was concern in Bucky’s eyes. A laugh almost bubbled up and out of you, but you swallowed it. How terrible and hilarious that you’d forced him to run through his own personal hell and he was concerned about _you._

“I’m fine,” you said before he could ask. Bent down to splash water in your face, wipe at it with the hand towel before you turned back to him. “Just a little rusty. Kinda like running a marathon after not training for a few years.”

“You look like hell,” he said.

“You don’t exactly look great either,” you bit back, tossing aside the towel and frowning up at him. “I’m fine. Let me take a few hours to rest, take my next dose of medicine, eat a little and drink some water. Then we can get back to it.”

“Are you—”

“Don’t finish that question.” You held up a hand, rolling your eyes. “Your concern is adorable but entirely misplaced. I’m sure. You need to get some actual sleep too. Maybe listen to some meditation tapes, try to get your mind clear again. Because it’s screaming like hell.”

“Uh… right.” Bucky’s ears had gone red, his expression one that was trying and failing to hide mortification. “Sorry. I just…”

He didn’t finish. Just stood there, looking a little lost. If you weren’t so tired, if your head didn’t hurt, if it didn’t feel like there were a thousand tiny needles being jammed into the back of your eyes, you would’ve shown him a little mercy. Apologized for snapping at him, for being… well, for being _you._ Never easy to get along with, always difficult. Rubbing at your eyes, you let out another soft sigh and stepped forward, giving his chest a gentle little pat.

“I’ll be napping on the couch. You should get a nap in, too.” You stepped around him, pushed damp hair away from your face and couldn’t look him in the eye. “We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

Before he could respond, you were headed back down the hall, carefully supporting yourself with a hand against the wall. You weren’t certain where Natasha and Sam were, since neither were where they had been. But you suspected they weren’t far; either hiding out in another room or outside the complex discussing something that wasn’t meant for your ears. You could have reached out to find their minds, Sam’s calm and friendly and Natasha’s silent and unsettling. Your exhaustion, however, kept you from even trying it. You needed to save your energy. Every ounce of it would be needed if you were going to succeed in the stupid, foolish thing you’d agreed to do.

Collapsing onto the couch, you let your eyes close as your head hit one of the throw pillows, legs curling up close and consciousness fading away quickly. But you remained awake just long enough to feel someone cover you with a blanket before sleep took you.

Mercifully, you did not dream. But the stars still whispered to you.

Everything, and nothing at all.


	5. Chimera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: implied hallucinations/delusions
> 
> _the things i could do  
>  if you only knew  
> you'd pray that i cut you loose_

_There was a shadow in the corner._

_Had the shadow always been there? When you heard those whispers telling you that the Professor was going to plant something inside of you, when you’d heard the whispers telling you about the tea that your boyfriend had been giving you every night, when you’d been given the memories that always seemed to be missing when you woke up in the morning._

_Maybe it was the shadow that whispered to you. Placed a dark, cold hand with too long fingers and nails that dug into your soul on your shoulder, leaned close._

_A delusion. A hallucination. A physical manifestation of the fucked up brain you’d gotten from your father, passed down from his mother to him to you. A curse, crippling you and turning your mind and powers against you._

_But the shadow felt real. A glitch in your memories, your nightmares. Never visible when you turned to look at it head on, always living in the very corner of your vision. Another thing for you to try to sort out, to puzzle over in your darkest moments, when the dark tides of your depressive tendencies dragged you down deep and threatened to finally drown you for good. If you’d ever brought the shadow up to the therapists you’d seen, they would have immediately turned to Jung, the shadow aspect, the unknown side of the psyche that you weren’t aware of manifesting itself in your delusional episodes._

_That was why you’d never told anyone about the shadow. Because you knew that wasn’t it. The shadow wasn’t you. You would have recognized a part of yourself, heard some part of your voice in the way it whispered to you, sank its claws deep into your mind. But there was no shred of your voice, the odd accent you’d affected from growing up around so many different nationalities. It was familiar, layered in ways that your brain could almost identify, but you always fell short. A chorus of tones and accents that you knew you should have known but couldn’t place._

_There was always a wall, something that kept you from remembering too much about the shadow. Obscured any features it may have had on its dark face, rendering it blank and nightmarish save for glowing eyes, ones that were too dark and too bright all at once. Too large in the featureless face, sometimes far in the corner and sometimes so close that you wanted to scream._

_There was a shadow in the corner, eyes glowing eerie blue, as you lost control._

_The shadow watched as blue flames burst from the gas stove, erupted in a blinding, deafening blast. It watched as the flames you had generated seared your back, watched as the house you’d lived in crumbled around you, your screams blending with the chorus of destruction. It watched as the windows exploded, glass sheared across your cheek, cutting down to the bone. And it watched as the support beams collapsed, crushed your leg, pinned you as the flames grew closer._

_The shadow did nothing but watch and whisper as your tears mixed with ash and blood, your lungs filled with smoke, and the distant sound of sirens grew closer and closer. The shadow was the last thing you saw as your mind went dark, some part of you screaming that this was it. That you were dead._

_When you woke, body wracked with pain and numb from the painkillers and sedatives they had pumped you full of, the shadow was not there. Not at the corner of your eye. But through the pounding in your head, the migraines you would still experience when you pushed too hard, went too far, you could hear it whispering in that chorus of familiar-but-unknowable voices._

_“This is what you always have been,” it whispered. “And this is what you always will be. It’s in the blood. It’s in the blood, and you cannot escape.”_

\---

**60 HOURS REMAINING**

Bitter taste of blood and smoke still lingering at the back of your tongue, you woke curled into a tight ball, breath coming in small, desperate little pants and a cold sweat making your hair and clothes stick to your skin. Your nails had broken through the skin of your upper arms, drawing tiny pricks of blood. Relaxing your grip, you forced yourself to take a deep breath.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare. Nothing more.

Grey light filtered through the curtains in Bucky Barnes’ living room, making it hard for your still-exhausted brain to try to figure out whether it was day or night, how much time had passed. Rubbing at your eyes, you threw off the blanket that had been placed over you and sat up. Vision bleary, trying to clear through the aftermath of one of your migraines, you snatched up your phone and looked at the time. The battery was running low. You didn’t keep a charger in your bag, and you knew there wasn’t time to drive to your house and pick one up. All you could do was hope that Bucky had a charger you could use.

Pushing your damp hair back from your face, you startled when a glass of water was set in front of you. When you glanced up, Natasha gave you one of her sharp smiles, sitting down on the couch next to you.

“Must have been one hell of a nightmare,” she said.

“What?” you said, then, “Oh.”

Not certain how to respond, you picked up the glass of water instead, chugging it and feeling your skin crawl as the other woman watched you. Her mind was too quiet, offer up nothing for you in terms of what she was thinking. Trained against telepaths, mental wall strong enough that it would have taken a huge amount of effort to break through it. When you set down the empty glass, swiped at your lips with the back of your hand, she spoke again.

“Who trained you?”

You glanced at her, aching eyes narrowed as you rubbed at the back of your neck.

“Who says I was trained?” you countered.

“You spent eight hours inside the mind of someone who was brainwashed for over seventy years, promised something that hasn’t been possible so far through hypnotherapy and suggestion.” Her sharp smile gained an amused edge as she cocked her head to the side, eyes boring into your own. “That would be a feat even for the telepaths I’ve met so far.”

“Maybe I’m just that good.” You tried to smile but it came out as a grimace, a sharp throb in your left eye making you hiss. Fingers rubbing at it, you turned away from her again. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Natasha’s hand rested light on your knee, the couch creaking softly as she moved closer to you. “You good?”

False concern. Even though she was good at it, made it sound sincere, you knew that clinical edge to her tone. You’d heard it enough times, knew how to cut through all the bullshit that had been thrown your way. Brushing her hand away, you stood up, ignoring the wave of nausea that passed through you.

“Fine,” you bit out. “Just need my pills.”

“They keep you on the level?” The false concern was gone, her voice flat as it had been before. Good. You preferred that she was honest with you.

“Haven’t had an episode in about eight months.” Crouching to dig your pills out of your bag, you glanced up at Natasha, met her gaze as steadily as you could. “So if you’re worried about the crazy getting passed on, don’t be.”

Natasha was silent as she watched you dry swallow your medications, tuck them back away in your bag, fiddle with the hair tie on your wrist. There was no doubt in your mind that your hair was wild, sticking out in every direction, curled strangely, poking up at angles. Paired with whatever she’d heard you mumbling in your sleep, the antipsychotics you took, the dark circles that you knew hung under your eyes, it likely added up to the perfect image of insanity. Your rumpled, sweat soaked clothes certainly didn’t help either.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, sitting down on the floor.

“Still sleeping.” Natasha braced her elbows on her knees, continued to watch you with open curiosity. “Can’t you hear it?”

Now that she had mentioned it, you could. That familiar tangle of his thoughts, slowed with sleep, a garbled mix of English and Russian that you couldn’t understand. It hadn’t taken any effort, your minds reaching towards one another with an ease that frightened you. Retreating back to yourself, slamming up the barriers that kept all thoughts but your own out, you managed to keep your expression calm.

“He should be waking up soon,” you said, casual as you could. Then, noticing an absence, you frowned. “Where’s Sam?”

“Got an emergency call and had to do a welfare check on someone,” she told you. When you looked confused, she grinned. “Social worker.”

“Oh.” Leaning back against the wall, you took measured breaths and tried to quietly banish the lingering fear and pain from your sudden nightmare. “Have… you been here the whole time?”

“Did a few trips around the building to check for threats, but pretty much, yeah.”

“You haven’t slept?”

“Trust me, I’ve had worse security detail jobs.” Natasha let out a small snort. “I’ve got my replacement coming. He should be here any minute, actually.”

Replacement. They were on rotational shifts, however many of them there actually were that had agreed to keep an eye out on Bucky. Already you’d been watched over by the Falcon and the Black Widow. Who else had he managed to rope into it? Spider-Man? Iron Man? If you had to spend any time at all with Tony Stark, you would need at least one whole bottle of wine in you to deal with him. You hadn’t met him, but you had done a few contracts for Stark Industries, and the man was a certified pain in the ass. Groaning, you ran your hands over your face, hoping that the painkiller would kick in soon.

“I need a shower,” you mumbled.

“Go take one, then.” Natasha gave a tiny shrug. “I’ve got some clothes I keep here. They should fit.”

“I… thanks.” You blinked, not expecting the quick agreement. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Hey, you help Barnes, we help you, too.” She smiled, less of a sharp edge to it.

Simple as that. You blinked, not entirely expecting it. You weren’t sure what exactly you _had_ been expecting. Maybe being fed a few meals, crashing on the couch. But that was it. The thought of getting thanks for it, people owing you something… it made you uncomfortable. Once you were done, you just wanted it over and done with. Put it behind you, go back to the carefully curated life you’d built for yourself in the past year. But it was rapidly becoming clear that that was not going to be the case. Because even though Bucky had promised you that you’d never hear or see him again if you asked it of him, it was becoming increasingly clear that something was happening. And it wasn’t something that either of you could walk away from easily.

\---

**59 HOURS REMAINING**

Emerging from the bathroom, you toweled your hair dry and felt immense relief that the clothes Natasha had given you did actually fit. Although you weren’t nearly as slender as she was, being much smaller than her had cancelled out your concerns about not fitting into the sweatpants and sweatshirt. Muffled conversation came from the kitchen, a voice you didn’t recognize talking in hushed, strained tones. You frowned, shuffling quietly down the hall and peeking around the corner, towel draped around your shoulders.

“I still think this is a terrible idea, Buck.” The new voice belonged to someone tall and blond, his broad back turned to you. But you knew you recognized his voice, eyes narrowing. “Having someone mess around in your head more—”

“What other choice do we have, Steve?” Bucky was just out of sight, but you could feel the nerves radiating off of him, setting you on edge as well. “You know what they’ll do. You know what’s at stake.”

Steve. Oh, god. He was talking to _Steve Rogers._ That’s why you recognized his voice. You’d had to watch old WWII PSAs with him, seen old film reels in your history classes at the Institute. Natasha had said someone was coming to replace her. But you hadn’t expected Captain America himself.

Still better than having to deal with Tony Stark, though.

Not particularly wanting to hear either of them talk about you any further, you stepped out of the hall and cleared your throat, grabbing the ends of the towel. Both men turned to look at you, matching looks of surprise and embarrassment on their faces. Bucky had pulled his hair back into a ponytail, changed while you had been in the shower and after he’d woken up. He still looked half-asleep, though, a polar opposite to Rogers, who looked put together, blond hair swept back and clean shaven.

“Oh, uh, Steve,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “This is Andromeda Haller. Andy, this is—”

“Steve Rogers, yeah. I had to watch like a million PSAs he made back in the day about buying bonds and fighting the good fight or whatever.” You frowned up at the man, who was somehow even taller than you’d expected him to be. Maybe it was just the way he carried himself.

“This… is her?” Rogers asked, frowning back down at you before looking back at Bucky.

_So small. Looks so young. Blue… hair? Buck, what—_

Shaking your head and pulling away from his thoughts, you sighed heavily. You couldn’t help that you weren’t a 6 foot something muscle bound force to be reckoned with. You weren’t a super spy, didn’t have any fancy kind of military-grade equipment. But even if they weren’t aware, you knew that you could take care of yourself if the worst did come to pass.

“Nice to meet you, too,” you grumbled, turning your attention back to Bucky. “Coffee?”

“What?” He blinked, seeming distracted for a moment before he shook his head and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Just made a fresh pot, you know—”

“—where the cream and sugar are, yeah.” Finishing his sentence for him, you ignored the questioning look Rogers sent towards the other man and took down a mug, having to stretch up on your tiptoes to reach the cabinet. “Let me finish a cup and we can get started again. Just… wanted to give my meds a chance to kick in.”

“So, Andromeda.” Rogers’ voice was strained, his smile twitching a bit as he tried his best to be polite. “Bucky told me that you met him in group therapy.”

“Yeah.” You frowned up at him, taking a sip of your coffee after you’d poured it and dosed it with cream and sugar. “That a problem?”

“Wh—No, I just—I was—”

“Look.” Sighing, you leaned back against the counter. “This situation sucks all around. Being stuck some place pushing my powers to their limits around people I don’t know very well with the knowledge that a couple of super assassins could come for me isn’t exactly ideal for me. I doubt that Bucky’s particularly pleased about having someone digging around in his head. But the fact of the matter is I’m the best chance you’ve got at making sure his programming isn’t triggered again.”

Both men fell silent. Bucky couldn’t look at you or at his best friend, gaze glued to his bare feet, joints in his prosthetic letting out a quiet whirr as he tightened his grip on his coffee mug. Rogers met your gaze, searching your expression. For some sign of deception, you were sure. Trying to feel you out, make sure that you weren’t an enemy who had cleverly hidden your true nature. You stared right back at him, taking another long sip of coffee.

“You’re sure you can do this?” he asked after a long moment.

“Oh, not at all.” When both men looked at you with alarm, you simply gave a small shrug. “I’ll do my best. But I’m trying to unravel and block out seventy years of aggressive brainwashing. If Bucky’s brain were a computer and this programming were a virus, it would take me a while to find out a way to disable the program. It’s the same with this. If I’m not careful, I could do more damage than help. But I’m trying. It’s the best I can do.”

Rogers sighed, running a hand through his hair. You glanced over at Bucky, surprised to catch his gaze. His grey eyes were dark, expression hard to read. It would have been easy to reach out, to read his mind and see what he was thinking. But you didn’t. There was some small part of you that whispered to let him have a little privacy. After all, you were going to shatter it soon, dig back into his brain and look at every terrible thing he’d ever done. He offered you a small, sad little smile.

It only made you feel worse.

“This is taking a toll on her too, Stevie.” Bucky turned his gaze back to his friend, voice soft. “I know you don’t like it. But it was this or run the risk of having the Soldier take over again.”

The two men looked at each other for a while, a silent conversation passing between them. A kind of telepathy that you had seen before, between two old friends who could tell what the other was thinking just from the set of their shoulders, the twitch of their lips, the look in their eyes. You knew better than to interrupt, drinking your coffee and looking away so that they could say what needed to be said to one another.

“What can I do to help?” Rogers finally asked, turning back to you.

“Me?” You snorted, giving a small shake of your head. “Not much. Just… make sure crazy super assassins don’t kill us.”

“Keep an eye out on her,” Bucky said. You frowned, but he continued. “If she looks sick, or in pain, shake us out of it.”

“I’ll be fine,” you sighed, rolling your eyes and waving away the concerned looks both men shot your way. “Seriously. Just let me do what needs to be done. I’ve got no time or patience for misplaced chivalry. By the way, either of you have a phone charger for an Android?”

Both of them stared at you as if you’d just begun speaking in tongues. Of course. Although neither of them looked much older than you, they had the same technological knowledge as the average 90-year-old. Rubbing at your eye, you tried to keep your tone even.

“Just let me see your phone chargers,” you ground out. “I’ll see if they work or not.”

Setting down your empty mug, you followed them out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Rogers dug in the backpack he’d set in one corner near the couch, holding out his charger for you. Of course, it was for an Apple phone. Bucky came back from his bedroom and you let out a long sigh of relief when he set the proper charger in your hand.

“Thank you for accidentally having good taste in phones,” you told him, grinning when he gave you a confused smile. “Let me plug my phone in, get it charging and set an alarm. Then we can get to work.”

“Don’t you need to eat?” he asked.

“Nope.” You popped the ‘p’, quickly setting another eight-hour alarm for yourself. “Should be fine. Besides, it’ll all just come back up anyways.”

“Wait, what?” Rogers asked, frowning at you.

“Don’t worry about it.” Waving a hand dismissively, you pointed to the couch. “Bucky, lay down here. I’m gonna try something else this time.”

“Andy, I really think—”

“Lay down,” you said with more force. “I know my limits. You want me to fix this or do you want to be my mom?”

After a moment of hesitation, he laid down on the couch. You located the cushion you’d sat on before, setting it down next to the couch so that you were kneeling next to his head. Alpine sauntered into the room, announced herself with a loud chirp, and jumped up to curl on Bucky’s chest. Some of the tension bled from his face as she purred, prosthetic fingers gently scratching behind her ears. Although you were tempted at first to hand the cat off to Steve, you realized that it was a good thing for Bucky to have the comfort animal. A grounding force to balance out what you were about to do to him. Reaching out, you brushed hair back from his forehead, ignoring the way he twitched, ears flushing. You looked up at Rogers, who had an odd expression on his face.

“If anything happens, wake me up first,” you told him, fingertips pressed to Bucky’s temples. “Emergencies only. Things might get… weird.”

“How weird?” he asked, watching Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, his mind bending under your touch, entering a deep trance, past even dreaming.

“He may start talking, might move a bit. Could thrash, too. But unless he tries to harm himself, don’t shake me out of it,” you instructed.

“What if he tries to hurt you?”

That was a possibility you hadn’t thought of. Giving him a grim smile, you shrugged.

“Unless he’s killing me? Keep us under.”

With that said, you closed your own eyes, pressed your forehead against Bucky’s, and dove in.

\---

**58 HOURS REMAINING**

_Deep in a trance, Bucky’s consciousness was not present as you sank deep into his mind, the cold depths of it feeling disconcertingly familiar. You found yourself once more in the ravine, snow falling slowly and blood smeared in a gruesome trail. But you pushed past it. You had an idea, and going through painful memories, reliving his nightmares, was not part of it. Instead, you sank deeper, pressed up against one of the scars in his psyche, pushed past it to reveal what laid beyond it._

_A memory, faded with age, flickering like an old film. Bucky, still a kid, thoughts holding a naïve glow to them, held his baby sister and listened to his mother singing in the kitchen. The apartment was small, and shabby, and cold. But the warmth of love radiated in the space, his sister’s face tucked into his neck as she slept. The smell of cabbage rolls wafted through the air. Bucky went into the kitchen to join his mother, voice cracking as he joined her song. His mother, with the same dark hair and grey eyes he had, smiled down at him. Even as a boy, he’d been tall. He helped his mother with the cooking, used just one hand so that he could continue to hold his sleeping sister. His father would be home soon, the sun already beginning to set. There was a sense of peace, of familiarity, to the memory that broke your heart._

_How many of these warm memories, this loving childhood, had been taken from him?_

_Pulling back, you ripped open another scar, revived another memory. Bucky was no longer a boy but a young man, a pretty red headed girl holding his hand and a scrawny, frail blond boy walking on his other side. The Coney Island they walked through was not the one you had visited as a child. It was older, vastly different. Bucky wanted to win the girl a prize, but let his date leave early so that he could spend some more time with Steve. Steve, small and sickly, but with a fire in his eyes that made him seem so much larger. The boys rode on the back of a truck to get back to Brooklyn, ice cream cones melting in the summer heat, sticky sweet and coating their fingers as they laughed._

_Methodically, you pressed through the blocks that had been set up. There were too many to go through in just one day, of course. A whole life had been ripped out of his hands. But you did your best to dig up the happiest memories you could find. Dates he had gone on with pretty girls, time spent with Steve, boxing matches that he’d won, helping his sister take her first steps, hearing her say her first words, running around the neighborhood with her on his shoulders, both of them laughing loud and free. A childhood spent in tenements, poor and struggling and doing odd jobs to help feed his family. He’d been loved. Cherished. Left behind people who mourned him._

_Was his little sister still alive? Did she know what her brother had become? Or had she died, still believing that Bucky had been killed in action? You didn’t know which option was worse._

_You also learned things about the man he’d once been. How he’d loved science, how much he’d loved and doted on his sister, how envious he’d been of Steve’s art skills. You had no idea if any of those things were still true, or if he’d moved past it. Filled in all those gaps in his mind and personality with new things. The Bucky who had fallen into the ravine was no longer a stranger. But the Bucky whose mind you were currently deeply embedded in? There were still so many unknowns._

_Each memory, each scar unraveled, took more and more from you. By the time you got to the World’s Fair, the night before Bucky shipped out to England, you felt small, weak, drained. You wanted to keep going. Wanted to arm yourself with as many positive memories as you could. But you didn’t know how much farther you could go. Already beginning to fade, you were startled when Bucky looked right at you, eyes bright in the lamp light._

_You blinked at him. He should have been too deep to sense your presence. You looked behind you, tried to see if there was any chance of him looking for someone else behind you. After all, he was in too deep of a trance. There was no one of note behind you, however. Steve had been standing next to him, both of the girls had latched on to his arm. When you turned back to him, his gaze had slid back to his friend, his smile soft and sincere._

_It must have just been your imagination. A trick of the mind, a glance that had just so happened to land in the same location you had been in. But there was some part of you… some part of you that was certain he’d seen you. Looked at you, acknowledged your presence. An impossible thing, and yet…_

_And yet._

_Heart-wrenchingly handsome in his uniform, a perfect tragic hero with no knowledge of his fate and only a desire to serve his country and protect his people, you watched him turn away. You wanted to reach out, to grab the back of his uniform. But it was only a memory, and there was nothing you could do to change what had been done. There was no going back to the past. It could not be changed; your father had taught you that._

_All you could do was try to undo the damage, look to the future, and pray that the stupid, hopeful little plan that was beginning to bloom in your head would work._

_This Bucky was gone. But the one you knew could still be saved._

\---

**50 HOURS REMAINING**

The alarm went off, distant at first and slowly fading in as you came back to yourself. Your eyes opened with some difficulty, your forehead still pressed to Bucky’s. His eyelashes fluttered as he came out of his own trance and you quickly backed away, ignoring the sudden wave of nausea. On your hands and knees, you crawled over to your phone, turning off the alarm and hanging your head. Each breath seemed like it took a monumental feat of strength. The pain behind your eye was worse, throbbing and blacking out the vision. You pressed the heel of your hand against it, took deep and steadying breaths.

It was only the second time you’d spent so long in his head. But you hadn’t had him there to guide you through it, hadn’t let his mind show you what it wanted to. Just the few memories you’d uncovered had sapped you of almost all your strength. The scars were still there, the psychic backlash you’d inflicted on yourself a year ago coming back to haunt you once more. There was a gentle weight on your back, and you turned your head, looking up into the too blue eyes of Steve Rogers. His expression of concern morphed into one of fear and you wondered just how bad the damage was.

“I… Andromeda, your nose…” he said.

Sitting down heavily, you swiped at your nose with the back of your hand. It came away bloody and the salty, iron taste of it hit the back of your tongue just a moment later.

“Shit,” you rasped, closing your eyes with a soft sigh.

“Are you okay?” Rogers asked. He’d knelt next to you, kept his hand on your back. You wanted to snap at him, skin crawling at the touch, but couldn’t find the energy for it. Let him think he was comforting you. “We should get you to a hospital, a doctor—”

“I’m fine.” Not a very compelling argument when your nose was gushing blood, hands and fingers coated in it as you tried to staunch the flow. “It’ll stop soon. Just give it a second.”

“Here.” Bucky crouched on the other side of you, shoving a box of Kleenex into your line of sight.

Grunting, the closest you could get to thanks, you removed your hands from your nose and yanked a fistful of tissues out of the box before shoving them against your face and tipping your head forward. How long had it been since you’d had a nosebleed this bad? The migraines were one thing, and the nausea, the pain in your eye. But it took several minutes for the bleeding to stop, both men remaining on the floor next to you, watching you with matching expressions of concern.

Setting aside the blood-soaked tissues, you wiped at your mouth and chin, trying to get rid of the rest of the blood.

“Andy—” Bucky started to say.

“I think I have an idea of how to set up a temporary stop gap,” you interrupted him. Turned to look at Steve, the vision slowly returning to your aching eye. “Do you know Russian?”

“A little,” he said, frowning. “Why?”

“The trigger phrases. They’re in Russian, and I don’t speak it. But I want to know the translations.” You glanced over at Bucky, giving him a half-apologetic look. “I’d… ask you, but it could trigger the programming.”

“I understand.” Bucky’s smile was pained. “What do you need?”

“Pen and paper,” you told him. “I can burn it once I get what I need, no risk of you seeing it.”

“It’s… worth a shot.” Rogers still looked hesitant, watching Bucky as he stood and went to retrieve what you had asked for. “What’s your plan?”

“It’s simple.” You let him help you stand, gathering the bloody tissues and shuffling to the trash can in the kitchen to throw them away. When you grinned, he winced, and you suspected that you still had blood on your teeth. “Counter-programming. It’s a Hail Mary, but it’s better than nothing. If I know the translations for the trigger words, I can dive back in and set up new protocols to try and link them to positive memories. Things from his past, his present.”

Rogers started to open his mouth to say something, but shut it when Bucky reappeared, setting down a pen and paper on the island in the kitchen.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll stay in my room. Just… just to be safe.”

“Are you okay?” you asked him, frowning up at him. He looked shaken, pale.

“Oh.” Bucky met your gaze, jaw clenching for a moment before he gave a shrug. “Just… feeling weird, I guess.”

“Wait, weird how—”

Before you could press him for more details, he left, the sound of a door shutting behind him echoing down the hall shortly after. Swaying in the kitchen doorway, you blinked. Steve stepped up next to you, letting out a small sigh.

“I’ll check on him in a minute. He just… I think he needs a bit of time alone,” he told you. “This whole situation is frustrating for him. The loss of control, the potential for him to regress… it scares him, too. There’s a lot at stake here.”

“I know.” Sighing, you moved to the sink, washing out your mouth and scrubbing at your face before you found a clean dish towel to dry off with. When you turned back to Rogers, he was watching you, eyes cloudy and expression dark. “I… I don’t take this lightly, you know.”

“I know.” He sighed, leaning against the island and pushing the notepad and pen towards you. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be pushing yourself to keep going even though you’ve got burst blood vessels in your eye. Just… don’t add another potential casualty here.”

“I won’t.” Giving him a pained smile, you hopped up to sit on the island. “Okay. I don’t… know the Russian alphabet or whatever. But if I write out the words phonetically, can you tell me what they mean?”

“I can try.” Watching you write out the first word, he fell silent as you worked, pausing momentarily to run through the memories you’d pulled out the night before, hear the words said over and over. A mantra that would have been maddening if it weren’t for the grounding force of your throbbing headache. Once you were done, you set the notepad down in front of him. “Do any of these make any sense to you?”

“Yeah, actually.” He looked impressed, holding out a hand. You gave him your pen, watched as he skimmed over each word, wrote a translation in neat cursive next to them. “The phonetics are perfect.”

“Took some linguistics in college,” you offered, lips twitching up in a weak smile. “Just for shits and giggles. Glad it helps.”

“Here. Pretty sure this is right. You want me to send this off to Nat, make sure it’s all good?” he asked you.

“Yeah. I don’t think this is something where we want to have even a little doubt.”

Nodding, he dug out his phone, frowned at it and finally managed to take a picture of the notepad that wasn’t out of focus or blurry. Once the picture had been sent off, he shoved his phone back in his pocket. An awkward silence fell once more, his gaze trained on the list you’d made. While you were trying to clear your mind, make it safe to dive back into Bucky’s again, he looked… haunted. Guilty.

_M_ _y fault. Should have done something. My fault. How could you let this happen?_

Wincing at the thoughts screaming through his head, you withdrew, wrapped your arms around yourself. Clearing your throat, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

“You should go check on Bucky. Make sure… just check in on him,” you mumbled.

“Yeah.” He pushed away from the counter, ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Will… you be good?”

“I’ll survive,” you told him, attempting another cheeky grin. “Just let me know what Natasha says?”

With a sharp nod, Rogers hesitated for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low.

Before you could respond, he turned and strode out of the kitchen. It was only when you heard the door open and shut behind him that you felt like you could breathe again, head falling forward and hands pressed to your face.

You prayed that they couldn’t hear your soft sniffles, wet intakes of breath. And you tried to tell yourself that in the split second you’d looked into the shadows of the dark hall, you hadn’t seen a pair of glowing blue eyes watching you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> steve, meeting 4'11 rumpled and exhausted andy for the first time: who is this...... sassy lost child
> 
> thanks as always for reading. sorry for the long span between chapters; i've been sick and had to take a break because the world is just... hoo boy. 
> 
> love y'all. take care of yourselves.


	6. Side Effects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _my fighting spirit overlfows, i thought i could beat everyone  
>  but not even my rashness can help me endure  
> maybe it hurts more because i thought it'd be easy_

**50 HOURS REMAINING**

Bucky Barnes stalked his bedroom like a trapped animal, heart in his throat and a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had agreed to this. He had sought it out himself. But he clearly hadn’t thought through all of the potential side effects. The things that could come up when someone dug through his head, the memories that could come crashing in like violent, drowning waves. He felt cornered, the sparse room suddenly feeling far too small, the walls closing in around him. When the door opened, he turned sharply, hands curling into tight fists and muscles tensed.

Only Steve. It was only Steve, a familiar look of concern and pity in his eyes. He closed the door softly behind him, watched Bucky pace back and forth, back and forth.

“What happened?” Steve asked, keeping his voice low.

Seeing right through him, knowing the way he looked when he was haunted, when he was blindsided by a life he had forgotten for so long. Bucky stopped pacing, sat down heavily at the end of his bed and clasped his hands together. He couldn’t look his oldest friend in the face, couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I remembered Rebecca,” he said, a rasp in his voice.

“Oh.” There was a pause. Then Steve came to sit next to him, leaving a bit of space, knowing that Bucky got touchy about it, needed a bit of room when he got like this. “What did you remember? What was brought back?”

“Just… little snapshots. These incomplete moments, just… little bits and pieces.” He had to take a deep breath, focus on the feeling of his bare feet on the carpet, his toes curling into it. Grounding, reminding him of the real moment he lived in. “I remember how she used to fall asleep when I held her, how warm her face was when she tucked it into my neck. When she first talked, when we would run around the streets. Learning how to braid her hair for her. Ma teaching her how to make cabbage rolls. Her Bat Mitzvah.”

Steve was quiet. In those moments, he was always quiet. Since he’d found Bucky, did what he could to have both of them live under the radar with Nat and Sam’s support, he’d learned when to be quiet, when to talk, when to listen. It had been hard for both of them, but Steve had refused to give up on him. Sam had found him help, help that stayed quiet and let him lay low. And Nat had filled in some of the blanks, from his time as the Soldier, from her time in the Red Room. Support he still didn’t feel like he deserved.

And now there was a girl, sitting in another room in his apartment, bleeding for him. Another casualty.

“Is she…?” Bucky trailed off, afraid to finish the thought.

Steve knew what he was asking. He’d asked it before.

“Rebecca passed a few years before you… uh, before you woke up.” When Bucky looked over at him, Steve offered a small, sympathetic smile. “Cancer. Her family was with her.”

“Oh.” And there was that dull heartbreak again. Mourning for a life he’d missed, a life he hadn’t been around for. Still distant, a detachment to it that he wished he could get rid of. Bucky wanted to properly miss his family, mourn them the way that they had mourned him. “She… had kids?”

“Yeah. A wife and kids.” Steve smiled at the flash of surprise in Bucky’s eyes. “She wasn’t able to properly get married until… until close to the end. But she had a good life.”

“That’s good.” Bucky tried to reconcile the little snapshot memories that had come back to him with the information Steve had given him. What had Rebecca grown to look like, as an adult? What were her kids’ names, what was her wife’s name? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. It was better, he thought with a dull pain, to keep his distance. “Am I making a mistake?”

“I don’t know, Buck.” Steve’s hand was warm on his shoulder, and Bucky didn’t flinch. It was comforting, that little touch. “But like you said earlier… there aren’t many options right now. Not if you want to stay present. But you know the memories that could be brought back won’t… always be pleasant. Or easy to deal with.”

“I know.” Bucky took a deep breath, curled and uncurled his toes again, watched his hands, let himself be present. In the moment, not in the past. “And I won’t… I can’t regress. But I have to do this.”

They just sat there, for a moment, in a comfortable silence. A shared one, so many years of friendship letting them know what the other was thinking without saying a word. It still startled Bucky, sometimes, how just the smallest movement could let him know if Steve was angry, or sad, or concerned. Old things that he couldn’t quite remember, but were instinctual. Like muscle memory. Steve let out a little sigh, both of them making eye contact as his lips curved up into a half-smile.

“Blue hair, huh?” Steve chuckled.

“Christ.” Bucky rolled his eyes, standing back up and shooting his old friend an unamused glare. “Don’t.”

Steve just grinned, knowing that there was nothing else to say. The light-hearted jab had been made, the heavy tension that had been present in the room dissolving. Bucky’s stomach wasn’t twisting into knots anymore, he didn’t feel like he was going to vomit his heart out and see it laying in a bloody mess on the floor. But there was still a quiet tension in him, an unease.

Distantly, he could have sworn that he could hear a quiet, muffled sob.

\---

**48 HOURS REMAINING**

Watching the swirling patterns of creamer in your coffee, you took measured breaths. Breathe in for ten, hold for ten, slow exhale for ten. Your eyes ached, in the way that they only did when you cried. You had managed to splash your face with water, erase the physical traces of your tears before the two men had emerged from Bucky’s room. But you still felt the ache, the deep exhaustion that settled in your bones after you cried. It didn’t happen often. But when it did… when it did, it wiped you out. Hit you like a ton of bricks.

There was a reason why you refused to cry, even when you wanted to.

“Andromeda?”

You snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of your name, glancing up and seeing Steve Rogers sitting down in the chair in front of you. Concerned. Always concerned. Your grip tightened on the mug and you clenched your jaw.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “What’s up?”

“Nat just responded.” It took you a moment to catch up, for your brain to translate what he meant, what he was saying. When you gave a small nod, he continued. “The translations are correct. Do you remember them?”

Yes, you remembered them. Your brain hoarded any and all information, your memory perfect in the worst possible ways. The things you wanted to forget were always lodged permanently in your brain. The paper had already been crumpled, ripped, burned out on the balcony. The wind had blown the ashes away.

“Yeah.” You turned your attention back to the coffee, staring at the surface for a long moment before you took a sip. “I remember them.”

Bucky walked into the dining nook, setting a plate of pancakes in front of you. Blueberry, smothered in syrup. Your teeth ached just looking at them, your mouth watering. Even as an adult, you still had a sweet tooth. A plate with twice as many was set in front of Steve, who perked up like a dog. A golden retriever, you thought. Eager, bright, excited.

“It’s not much,” Bucky mumbled, sitting in the chair next to Steve. “But I think we all needed some food.”

His own plate was stacked as high as Steve’s. That super soldier metabolism, of course. You’d seen a glimpse of it before. But you looked away as both men dug into their food. Although you were hungry, you hesitated. Poked at the fluffy stack of pancakes with your fork, zoned out, before you took a small bite. The apartment fell silent, other than the gentle rumble of the heater and forks scraping on plates. The two men finished eating first, Steve seeking to banish the awkward silence by scrolling through his phone, Bucky clearing his throat and setting the plates in the kitchen. You only got through half of what he’d given you before you pushed it away, let Steve take the rest with no complaint. While he finished them off, you got up, moved into the kitchen and ignored the twisting nausea in your gut.

How long would it take for you to recover from what you’d done to yourself?

It didn’t matter. You refilled your mug with coffee, made sure that your movements were loud enough for Bucky to hear. The last thing you wanted was to startle him, trigger a response from fear or anxiety. He remained relaxed, finished washing the last plate before he turned to look at you. Exhausted, a reflection of the bone-deep tired that you felt yourself. How much longer could either one of you go on like this?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Do I look okay?” you shot back.

Bucky hesitated. At some level, you appreciated the hesitation. Although you knew you looked like hell, it still would’ve stung to hear an (you had to admit it, you really did) attractive man say so. He sighed, leaning back against the sink and rubbing at his dark-ringed eyes.

“No,” he muttered. “You don’t. Neither of us do.”

“A small price to pay for potential freedom.” You sipped at your coffee, prayed that the caffeine would banish the lingering headache, the exhaustion that you never seemed to be able to shake. You had been tired long, long before Bucky ever came into your life. “At least, compared to everything else. Nightmares, night terrors, terrible little memories being dragged back out.”

“Loss of control. Obliteration of a self. Regression. So much progress lost.” There was no joy in Bucky’s smile. Only a terrible, dark acknowledgement of everything that was at stake. “I know. I’ll take looking like death warmed over for a little longer.”

“I, um. I have a plan.” Looking away, you stared down at the dark surface of your coffee once more, watched the steam rise in slow, spiraling patterns. “It won’t be like the last few times. I won’t be… fully in your head.”

“Whatever it takes.”

 _Whatever it takes._ A severe desperation hidden in those words, behind a carefully neutral tone and lips pressed into a thin line. It was a huge weight, a burden that you had to handle carefully despite your slipping grip on it. If you failed… If you failed, it wasn’t just his life at stake. It was yours, the lives of the people you knew. Co-workers, online friends, neighbors, therapists, even your estranged family. All of them could be on the chopping block, just from being in your orbit. It was bad enough if these people after Bucky got their hands on him, but if they all got their hands on you…

It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen. And even if you suffered another blowback, you would ensure it.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you told him, giving him a small nod before you shuffled back out into the little dining nook.

Rogers looked at you. _Really_ looked at you. Past the messy blue hair and the bloodshot eyes and the light bruising you knew was blooming around your throbbing eye. You were certain that those all-American blue eyes could see right down to the core of you in that moment. And you were, very briefly, terrified of what he would find there. But he ended up giving you a little smile, standing and picking up the last of the dirty dishes.

“I’ll clean up. You and Buck should get to work.” There was a carefully curated cheer to his tone, one that he must have practiced regularly. It felt cloying, left a bad taste in your mouth even though it was meant to make you feel better. Your own answering smile was bitter, and you saw a bit of the light in his eyes dim. “You, uh… you should set up. Get what you need taken care of.”

Pills, alarm, check your phone for any messages or alerts that couldn’t wait until your work was done. And, most importantly, finishing up your coffee. You sat on the couch, sipped at it and took your medication. More than anything else, you had to keep on the level, had to make sure that your thoughts were your own and not whispers from the shadow that seemed to be sinking deeper into your bones. Even then, taking measured breaths and waiting for those distant whispers to finally fade away, it took far too long for the glowing blue eyes staring at you from the corner of your vision to disappear. Once they did, once it no longer felt like someone was pressing on your ribs, squeezing out all the air and making it hard to breathe, you closed your eyes and recited the translation for the trigger phrases. A mantra, repeated over and over.

_Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car._

What significance those words had to Bucky, if there was any significance at all, you did not know. You would likely never know. But you needed to bury them just as deep in his mind as the trigger phrases. And in such a short period of time. What if they showed up earlier than he had expected? Only two days left, and so much to do. He would have to find his own memories to tie to those words, to fight back against the Russian phrases. You weren’t willing to bend his mind to your will any further. That work… that work would have to be his own. You would plant the seeds, and he would have to let them bloom.

_Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car._

You opened your eyes, set another alarm. Twelve hours, this time. If you weren’t going to be diving fully into his mind, then you would give yourself more time before needing a break. Bucky would be in a deep trance, hypnotized, his mind laid open by your own prodding so that he would be more vulnerable to suggestion. Different from how HYDRA and the Soviets did it, you were sure. Less blunt force and more of a gentle, surgical approach. Or as close as you could get to it.

Twelve hours. Twelve hours to repeat those phrases, over and over, peel back layers of his psyche and implant them where the programming was. Your own counter programming. A temporary solution, one that fell back on all the years of experience you had with computers. A simple set up to place in his mind. If, then. But more complicated. Several layers of it. If [hear Russian trigger phrases], then [translate to native English]. If [hear English translation of trigger phrases], then [override with selected memories].

A Hail Mary. Something that you had very little faith in. A million ways that it could go wrong. But you didn’t see many other options. You simply did not have the time to undo the programming. All you could do was try your best, pray that it was enough and your weakened powers could pull through.

_Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car._

The brain was one of the most advanced organic computers to exist, still beyond total comprehension, behaving in strange ways and unable to be coded properly. Bugs would persist, lines of coding and programming would slowly fall apart and couldn’t be fixed. But despite that, despite all the ways that every mind you had touched was like the programs you put together for a living, people weren’t just their brains or their programming.

People were haunted houses. Their memories were ghosts, their bodies slowly falling apart with time and age, faster if they didn’t take care of them. Each person carried ghosts. Each person was haunted, although some more than others. Bucky Barnes, you had learned in the short time you’d spent with him, was deeply haunted. A house with strange and shifting chambers, changing its appearance time and again, trying to piece itself back together. A place that was hostile to all who entered it, even itself. Although you could try to put a new program in his brain, there was no accounting for the ghosts, the dark corners that neither of you had braved.

_Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car._

“Andy.”

Startled, you stared up at Bucky with wide eyes. He gave you an apologetic smile, one that didn’t reach his haunted eyes. No matter what expression he tried to wear, the man always seemed miserable. Shoving your troubled thoughts aside, you set your phone down on the floor and sat down next to it. Your bad leg ached, despite the painkillers, and you feared that with all of the sitting and kneeling and crouching you’d been doing, you’d end up with a limp for a while.

“Ready?” you asked, motioning to the spot you’d just vacated on the couch.

Bucky hesitated for a moment before sitting down, then shifting so that he was laying on his back again.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said.

“Fair enough.” You let out a short, humorless snort and shifted closer to him. When he turned to look at you, you almost flinched at the force of just having those dark grey eyes focused on your face. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to make eye contact. “I’m going to put you in a hypnotic state. You’re going to be highly suggestible. Don’t fight against me.”

Inhaling sharply, you saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Not that you could blame him. Although you were sincere in your desire to help him, every time he’d been in a similar state before, damage had been done. More pieces of who he’d been had been torn out, leaving an empty, bleeding husk. He barely knew you, and you only knew the person he’d once been.

You kept eye contact, trying to get across the unspoken question. The one that had been underlying for most of the hours you’d already spent with him. Bucky took a deep breath and gave a small, sharp nod.

The weight on your shoulders only increased ten-fold, the pressure to not fuck up making your hands curl into loose fists. You could hear the soft sound of Steve Rogers entering the room just to your left, although you did not look at him. Feeling his eyes on you, the weight of his own expectations, was more than enough. Rolling your head on your neck, you worked out a few kinks before glancing at him.

“I know you’re here for, like, protection shit. And I’m not gonna pretend like whatever I say is gonna have any weight with you.” You cracked your knuckles, took a deep breath. “But it’s best if you stay as quiet as possible.”

“Won’t even know I’m here, swear.” Steve held up a hand, scout’s honor.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you considered pointing out that lumbering around the apartment with his big, stupid body wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of silence. But he was Captain America, and you would have to have faith in his abilities to stay quiet and not distract you or pull Bucky out of his trance. Settling down more comfortably, you heaved a long sigh. You could have sworn you saw Bucky’s lips twitch into an amused smile, but brushed it off and focused instead on laying your hand on his forehead.

“Also, could you do me a favor, Cap?” you asked, turning towards him for a moment.

“Sure.” He grinned, leaning against the doorway and folding his arms over his chest.

“There’s a small chance that even saying the words in English could somehow trigger the Soldier. If it does—”

“It won’t happen,” Bucky said, voice strained.

“If it does,” you continued, voice harder and hand pressing firmer against his forehead, “can you promise that you’ll step in?”

“Promise,” Rogers said, utter sincerity in his voice.

“Good.” Because although you did want to help Bucky, you mostly wanted to live through this whole ordeal and get back to your regular, boring life. You took another deep breath, shifting your hand so that it covered his eyes. “Now. Let’s get to work.”

\---

**36 HOURS REMAINING**

The alarm went off, but you did not stop. Not quite yet. You silenced it quickly, not wanting to risk snapping Bucky out of his trance too quickly. Resting your hand over his eyes once more, you let out a slow sigh of relief when you found that he was still deep under, chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. Exhausted, it was a fight to keep your eyes open, your voice almost gone from the constant flow of words from your mouth. Clearing your throat and wincing, you started again from the top.

“Longing,” you said, what had once been a soothing voice no more than a quiet rasp. “Picture longing. Burn it into your mind. Hold that memory close to your chest and do not let it go. Longing.”

Bucky took a deep breath, held it. Through tired, bleary eyes, you watched his lips move silently. Once he stopped, you continued.

“Rusted. Picture rusted. Burn it into your mind. Hold that memory close to your chest and do not let it go. Rusted.”

Down the list you went, watching for each little twitch and reaction, always careful not to move on until he’d fall still and silent once more. Your voice began to give out, but you knew you could not stop until the very last word. You powered through the pain, as you had been doing for the 36 hours prior.

“Freight car. Picture fright car. Burn it into your mind. Hold that memory close to your chest and do not let it…” Your voice squeaked, broke. Clearing your throat, you forced the last few words out. “… go. Freight car.”

Bucky’s throat worked, his lips moved, his fingers twitched. You longed for rest, for a cool glass of water, for anything that would soothe the pain. Once he fell still, you slowly pulled him out of the trance. Slipped your fingers away from him, ran your hands over your face and sighed quietly. You heard Bucky’s groan as he came back to himself distantly, ears ringing.

Rogers had been good on his promise to remain quiet, approaching you so silently that you almost screamed when you felt his hand rest on your shoulder. Glaring up at him, you caught your breath as he leaned down to press a glass of water into your hands. Although he clearly had questions, he was polite enough to wait for you to down the whole glass before he spoke.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” It still hurt to talk, your voice broken and rasping and far too quiet. Rubbing at your throat, you shifted to push yourself to your feet, joints popping painfully. “There’s only one way to tell and I don’t think any of us want to test it out right now.”

“Christ, Steve, give her a moment, will you?” Bucky sat up, still looking exhausted as he rubbed at his eyes. “Andy, are you—”

“Holy shit, both of you just give me a second,” you rasped. Rubbing at your aching knee, you glared at both men. “I’m going to go to the bathroom, piss, take a shower, and then pass out for however long I need to. Do either of you have a problem with that?”

Bucky and Rogers both remained silent, matching kicked puppy looks on their faces. Taking a deep breath and forcing yourself to remain calm, shoving your temper down as deep as you could, you stood up straight and ignored a brief moment of light headedness. Swiping your phone from where you’d set it on the ground, you looked from Rogers to Bucky, trying not to wince at the sharp, stabbing pain in your temple.

“Good. Do… whatever it is you need to do. But just let me sleep.”

“I’ll get you a change of clothes,” Bucky finally said, grunting as he stood. You could faintly hear a few of his joints pop, and would have made a joke about brittle old bones if it weren’t for how goddamn tired you were. He disappeared for a matter of seconds, immediately coming back out with a bundle of clothes that he held out for you. “Here. Probably gonna be, uh, really big but—”

“Don’t care, as long as they’re clean.” You took them, bundled them to your chest and retrieved your various pill bottles as well. “You got a guest room?”

“Yeah, end of the hall, but—”

“I need a proper bed. Don’t care what state the room is in because I’ll be too busy sleeping to judge you,” you interrupted, shifting all of the things you were carrying to free one hand to rub again at your eye. “Don’t wake me up unless someone’s literally here to kill me.”

“I think we can do that.” Rogers sounded amused, but you ignored him, shuffling down the hall and slamming the bathroom door behind you.

Vaguely, just before you turned on the water, you swore you could have heard Rogers say, “Well. She’s a real ray of sunshine, Buck.”

\---

**18 HOURS REMAINING**

Upon finally waking up, you immediately wanted to go back to sleep again. Your head was still pounding, and even though the bed you’d passed out on was comfortable, it felt as if your body had been beaten bloody and bruised. Squinting, you groped blindly until you finally managed to grab your phone, the screen lighting up bright enough that you hissed in pain. Once your eyes adjusted, you groaned all over again. Eighteen hours. You had slept for eighteen whole hours. Passed out, sleeping like the dead. Bucky and Steve (and whoever might have cycled through on this weird protection detail) had come through on the promise you’d forced them to make, or if they had attempted to wake you up, they hadn’t been successful. There were a few emails that you had to check, updates on the projects that you’d put on hold and new deadlines for them. Very little time, even with the PTO that you’d taken.

“No rest for the wicked,” you mumbled, uncertain if you were dreading or excited to go back to work.

A mix of the two, perhaps. There were a few messages from co-workers, brief messages of sympathy for the made-up grandfather who had passed away, but otherwise… silence. Your tiny little footprint, the almost imperceptible dent you’d made with your life, showing itself. It was good, you tried to remind yourself. It was good that you were so under the radar. An easy out, if you needed to disappear. But there was still a slow sinking feeling in your chest. One that you refused to identify, and tucked away in that little corner in the back of your mind, locked up in the little drawer that you kept all of the emotions you didn’t want or didn’t have time to deal with.

Getting out of the bed was a slow process. Your head felt like it weighed a ton, heavy and hanging on your neck, still throbbing with a dull pain. But it was your bad leg that gave you the most trouble. Stiff, the smallest movement sending hot pain shooting from the tips of your toes to your hip. You weren’t certain just how long it took for you to finally swing your legs over the side of the mattress, sweat already beading on your forehead. You spent even longer massaging your knee, shaking fingers trying to work out the knots and pain, working over scars from the surgeries that had replaced bones damaged beyond repair. By the time you finally stood up, your breathing was labored and you had to dab sweat from your forehead and the back of your neck.

Already in a foul mood, despite the immense amount of sleep you’d managed to get, you took your usual round of pills and pulled up the hood on the massive sweatshirt Bucky had given you to sleep in. The waistband of the sweatpants had been rolled up as far as you could get it to, and the legs still dragged on the ground, covered your bare feet as you opened the door and slouched out of the guest room. The apartment was still and quiet, the door to Bucky’s bedroom closed as you limped past it. With the lights off, you had to give your eyes a moment to adjust, the dim light of your phone screen helping slightly as you made your way down the hall and into the living room. Light snores came from the couch, and when you swung your phone around, you could just make out a massive silhouette sprawled on it, one arm hanging off the front and legs dangling off the back. Rogers had stayed, then.

Keeping your steps as light and quiet as you could, you navigated into the kitchen, searched through the cabinets to pull out a glass and slowly, quietly fill it with water. Your throat was still raw, still parched from the twelve straight hours of speaking you’d done before you slept. Chugging three full glasses of tap water, you gently set the glass down in the sink and began to make your way towards the fridge when you froze.

Alpine stood between you and the kitchen entryway, her back to you. When you shone the light from your phone on her, you realized that she had her back to you, fur standing on end and back arched. A low growl rumbled out of her, ears pressed flat back against her skull and tail tucked firmly between her legs. Slowly, a feeling of dread squeezing your lungs, you lifted the light.

The shadow stood just outside of the kitchen. It was the first time you had seen it head on, taken in the enormity of it. Too tall, too thin, its limbs disproportionately long and fingers looking more like long, curved claws. It was bent, head almost brushing the tall ceiling. Face featureless and dark, you were only able to tell that it was staring at you because of the glowing blue lights set in its face like eyes. Fear gripped you, cold and spearing straight through your gut. You wanted to run, breath caught in your chest. But you were rooted in place, forced to watch with wide eyes and trembling hands as the shadow opened its great, dark jaws, revealing rows upon rows of sharp, pitch black teeth, and spoke.

 _Run,_ it hissed, directly into your brain.

The shadow’s voice was singular, so familiar that it sent a chill down your spine. You knew that voice, knew it intimately. Despite how desperately you’d tried to forget it, it had stuck in your brain, in your memories, haunting you at the worst moments.

 _Run,_ the shadow repeated in your father’s voice.

“You’re not real,” you whispered, taking a shaking half-step back and away. “You’re not real. I’m experiencing psychic backlash. My antipsychotics will kick in soon, and you’ll be gone, and everything will be okay.”

But you didn’t believe what you were saying. Because the shadow had never, ever appeared to you so blatantly, been so real in the way it presented itself that even a cat was hissing at it. Alpine had backed up to stand between your legs, huddled down and shivering. The shadow reached out, spindly hand passing through the threshold of the kitchen, tips of its claws a breath away from your face. Tears pricked at the back of your eyes, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. You couldn’t look away from the blue, bright eyes set in a pitch-black face, leaning closer to you. Only a breath away, sending another chill through you, the light in your hand jittering with the force of it.

 _They’re here,_ the shadow hissed, so loud in your aching head that you almost cried out in pain. The long fingers curled around your shoulder, painfully cold, burning through the material of the sweatshirt. _They’re here. Run!_

The next few moments happened in slow motion, reality warping itself to fit your briefly heightened perception. A cold stream of thoughts in Russian speared into your mind, the shadow blinking out of existence before your very eyes. You realized that the voice you were hearing, the thoughts that you were picking up, were not from Bucky. Aching body lurching into motion, you picked up Alpine and tucked her close to your chest as you dove out of the doorway and hit the tile floor hard, careful to land on your back so that the cat wasn’t crushed. And just as you’d curled yourself around her, turned so that your back was towards the front door, it exploded inwards and hell broke loose.

The Soldiers had arrived early.

\---

_“Has anyone told you the story of your namesake, sweetheart?”_

_“You mean the constellation?”_

_“No, no. I mean the actual myth.”_

_“No, Auntie Emma.”_

_“Well. I think it’s about time someone does. Come, sit.”_

_…_

_“Andromeda was a beautiful princess of a great kingdom. So great was her beauty that her mother, the queen Cassiopeia—”_

_“Like the other constellation.”_

_“Yes, darling. Like the other constellation. But this was the queen, and she boasted that she and Andromeda were more beautiful than the nereids, sea nymphs known for holding terrible beauty. This angered the sea god Poseidon, and so to punish the queen for her arrogance, he flooded their kingdom and sent a great sea monster to ravage and destroy their domain and all of the people who lived there.”_

_“Oh!”_

_“The king, desperate to protect his land and his people, went to an oracle who said that there would be no salvation from the monster and its wrath until he sacrificed his daughter to it. Heeding the oracle’s words, Andromeda was chained to a rock by the ocean, left to be killed by the monster. She would have perished, had Perseus not flown near and seen her. The man had just slain poor Medusa, and thought himself in love. So, he went to the king and extorted the poor man; the monster about to kill his daughter would be slain only if he agreed to let Perseus marry Andromeda. He did so, and Perseus killed the sea monster with the same sword that had slain Medusa. But there was a problem. Andromeda had already been promised to another. She was never asked what she wanted, never had an opinion. The man who she was supposed to marry showed up at the wedding, backed by the king who was also displeased, started a fight. And Perseus finished it by turning both men to stone with Medusa’s head, successfully stealing away his bride.”_

_“That’s… terrible.”_

_“It’s a tragic story to inherit from a name that you didn’t get to choose.”_

_“Was… was there anything good in her life?”_

_“Well, she was an ancestor of the great Heracles. And when she died, the goddess Athena placed her up in the sky as the constellation that we see now.”_

_“Oh…”_

_“I’m telling you this, Andromeda, so that you hold this story in mind when you have to make decisions in your life. Don’t let yourself become a sacrifice for another’s pride. Don’t let men decide your fate. Take it in your own hands, and don’t let it go.”_

_“Thank you, Aunt Emma.”_

_“Oh, you’re very welcome, little bean. Now, how about I teach you a few little tricks that your Auntie Jean won’t?”_

_“Oh! Yes, please!”_

_The stars continued to whisper. Everything, and nothing at all. And the girl kept it all in mind._


	7. 99.9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: violence, gore, more Scanners references, emotional distress
> 
> _wear your overflowing emotions on your sleeve  
>  and break it down  
> what do you see once you go beyond your limits?_

The roar of your panicked heartbeat drowned out everything else for a moment, Alpine shivering and pressing her head into your chest as you held her tightly. Trying to keep your desperate, panicked gasps for breath quiet, you squirmed to a corner of the kitchen, far from the open doorway into it and out of sight of the opening at the bar. Still clutching the frightened cat to your chest, you tried to quell your panic. You’d been in bad situations before. None of them had involved two super serum boosted Soviet assassins, of course. But you’d gotten out of worse.

Using your powers, at least the ones other than basic telepathy, was out of the question. Your head still ached and felt stuffed full of cotton, and trying to start a fire or kill the enemy by phasing them through the floor or the wall wasn’t an option. Telekinesis was out, too. Keeping Alpine cradled against you with one arm, you moved to face the cabinets and drawers, the knife block just a few feet away catching your attention. If you moved quietly and slowly, you could arm yourself with a few weapons. Just as you began to rise up, hand inching towards the knives, the distinctive sound of silenced gunshots rang close by. Slapping your hand over your mouth to keep the startled noise that escaped you muffled, you huddled back down, eyes squeezed shut as a few of the rounds went over your head, shattering mugs and plates in the cabinet and lodging in wood and plaster.

There was a muffled grunt, a loud thud. Rogers, you realized. Quickly reaching out, you brushed up against his mind and let out a shaking sigh of relief when you found him still alive. Injured, but alive. The stream of cursing in his head was not exactly the boy scout image that you’d thought he had, but you had to give him points for creativity. While he scrambled for cover, movements loud and unmistakable, you darted up, drawing one of the larger knives from the block and wrapping it in a dishtowel before shoving it into the rolled waistband of the sweatpants. There were a few muffled gunshots and you flinched, pressing Alpine tighter against you as you stared out the opening of the bar, trying to track movement in the darkness. Faintly, through the ringing in your ears, you could hear hissed Russian in two deep voices, and you kicked yourself once more for not knowing the language. It didn’t matter what they were saying, what they were thinking, if you couldn’t understand it. Pulling out another large knife, the quiet metallic sound of it being loosed from its confines satisfying, you crouched back down after snatching up a cast iron skillet that had been left on the stove.

Alpine’s claws dug into the bare skin of your shoulder, a grounding surge of pain as she clung tighter to you. The cat had managed to maneuver herself inside of the sweatshirt, claws scrabbling over your shoulders and back until she found purchase draped across both shoulders, tucked away safe inside. Although it hurt, blood already beginning to trickle warm from where she clung to you for dear life, it was better for both of you. Having both hands free was best. Brandishing the knife in front of you, the blade reflecting the light that spilled in through the front door, you forced your panic down.

Panic kills, Logan’s gruff voice reminded you. No matter how bad the situation, if you were going to survive, you would need to tamp down the natural response of fear. In the state you were in, you weren’t much of a threat to them. And if you were being brutally honest with yourself, setting aside the comfort that you wanted to grasp at, you wouldn’t have been a threat even at your best. Sure, you could have probably melted their brains. But you would have gotten a few bullets in you for your trouble. These were trained killers, best of the best, truly elite. Although you had taken down a few of your fellow classmates in drills, held your own the time the mansion had been invaded when you were a child, no one you had faced down approached the threat level that the Soldiers presented.

If they found you, you wouldn’t go down without a fight. Hopefully they wouldn’t know what you were and would kill you. Although you’d held onto the desperate will to survive for so long, death would be better for you, and for everyone else around you. Survival was the worst case scenario. Senses sharpened, adrenaline rushing through your tired, weak body, you remained still and silent as you heard a muffled curse, another short burst of gunfire and heavy footfalls. Rogers rounded the kitchen entrance, moving at a speed that was simply _wrong_ to your brain, and crouched under the bar, a few stray bullets embedding themselves in the wall.

Low caliber. That was good. It meant that being shot wasn’t necessarily fatal, wouldn’t lead to massive shock and blood loss. Too blue eyes flashed in the dark and you met Rogers’ gaze, one of his hands pressed over his shoulder. Vaguely, you could see something dark and slick on his fingers. Blood. Waiting for a moment, listening for any movement, you crawled over to him, retrieving your phone on the way over. With some difficulty, he lifted his free hand, making the universal “OK” sign and tipping his head to the side. You nodded, letting Alpine slink out from under the sweatshirt so that she could curl up in his lap. Kneeling in front of him, you pulled out the dishtowel wrapped knife from the waistband of the too-big sweatpants. Unwrapping it, you set the knife down next to him and pulled his hand away from his shoulder. Holding your phone up, you inspected the wound in the dim light. You had to rip his shirt open a bit to get a better look, but felt a tiny wave of relief. The bullet hadn’t severed an artery, hadn’t torn through him and left a gaping exit wound. Pressing the towel over the wound, you let him bring his hand back up to keep pressure on it, trying to stop the slow pulse of blood.

Where was Bucky? Surely he wasn’t sleeping so soundly that not even the sound of his home being destroyed would rouse him. Pressing the knife into Rogers’ other hand, you crept closer to the edge of the doorway, clutching a knife in one hand and the pan in the other. Taking a deep breath, you peeked around the corner, eyes adjusting to the dark and the warm light filtering in through the front door. Two shadows moved through the living area, large and visibly armed. Your heart stuttered in fear and you forced yourself to hold your breath, to not hyperventilate for fear that their sharp senses would pick it up. The couch had been flipped over, the table in the dining nook smashed, the little succulents Bucky had placed near the window destroyed. The Soldiers were slowly making their way towards the kitchen, hunting their prey. In just a few moments, they would overtake you. Clutching the handle of the knife between your teeth, you brandished the pan with both hands and took a deep, steadying breath. If you took advantage of the element of surprise, you might be able to knock one of them unconscious with the pan and get the knife in the other before they shot you down.

Still in pain and weak from everything you’d put yourself through, you’d have to rely on adrenaline giving you a boost of speed and strength. Muscles tensed, you counted down from five, very slowly, and ignored the muffled sound of surprise Rogers made when you ducked out from the doorway, rushing out into the living room.

But a dark figure beat you, streaking out from the hall. A cold wave of instinctive fear rolled through you, almost making you slip as you watched Bucky pounce on the Soldier closest to you, a feral growl rumbling from his chest. The metal of his prosthetic arm flashed in the light as he cocked it back, landing a brutal blow to the jaw of the enemy he’d knocked to the ground. You could hear bone shatter and splinter as he brought his fist down again. Tearing your gaze away from him, from the cold wrath that radiated from him, you focused your attention on the other Soldier. A man twice as big as you, thick with muscle, raising his pistol to take aim at Bucky. Forcing yourself to move, you fell back on instinct, on all the training that Logan had given you.

Being big, he’d told you many, many times, wasn’t an advantage. Not if you used momentum against an enemy, not if you knew where to hit that would cause the maximum amount of pain, not if you could get yourself where they couldn’t reach you or fight back. Darting forward, you launched yourself off of the couch that had been knocked on its side, knee hitting him hard in the chest and knocking the breath out of him. With a snarl of your own, you raised the pan with both hands, following him down and landing with a knee pinning down each arm. You brought down the heavy cast iron as hard as you could, hitting him in the temple and hearing a grunt of pain and surprise escape him. But it didn’t knock him out, as you’d been hoping. It _should have,_ the impact of the blow sending a dull wave of pain up your wrists and arms. But he only looked dazed for a moment. Alarmed, you cast aside the pan, took the knife from between your teeth and prepared to bring it down, slip it through a gap in his body armor and let it sink into his armpit, severing flesh and tendon and arteries.

But you should have known better. This was a Soldier, an enhanced being. Even with adrenaline coursing through your veins, it had nothing on the serum that ran through his system. Before you could bring the knife down, he was snarling something in Russian. He surged up, all muscle and rage, your little body that barely even weighed 100 pounds soaking wet with stones in your pockets tipping backwards. Yelping, you tried to scramble off of him, get away. But he was faster, too. One big, meaty fist closed around your wrist and wrenched. The bones snapped, fragile under the force he applied, and you screamed in pain. The knife fell from your hand, stars dancing across your vision as the whole world erupted into nothing but red-hot pain. Dully, you wondered if he’d actually torn your hand off. Right hand and wrist useless, cradled to your chest as he released it and you tried to back away, the Soldier advanced. One hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed, cutting off your air.

Would he strangle you, or snap your neck? Either was possible, neither would even make him break a sweat. Good hand clawing at his arm and wrist, trying to gouge at his face and eyes but not quite reaching, you gasped for breath as he lifted you off your feet. You dangled from his grip like a doll, limbs thrashing, dark bleeding in at the edges of your vision. Behind you, you vaguely heard a word in Russian that made your blood run cold.

“Желание.”

The first trigger word. Said with some difficulty, through a jaw that was likely shattered. But the tide of the fight that had been happening behind you must have turned in the Soldier’s favor. Vaguely, you heard Bucky snarl in pain, the whir of the joints in his prosthetic arm resetting. You couldn’t see him, back to both of them, tears pricking at the back of your eyes as you desperately clung to consciousness. Although you were kicking at the Soldier slowly choking the life from you, swiping at him and just managing to scratch his cheek, you found all of your attention drawn away from your own struggle.

“Ржавый.”

“No,” you gasped, barely audible, lungs burning.

“Семнадцать.”

Bucky screamed. A desperate, rasping sound that seemed to be drawn out of the very core of him, the muted sound of a struggle behind you. Rogers couldn’t fight. Not with that wound in his shoulder, not against enemies who merely shrugged off pain and injury like fucking terminators. Right arm hanging useless at your side, you landed another glancing blow against the Soldier’s throat. His dark eyes burned with hatred, grip tightening and cutting off what little air you’d been able to get.

“Рассвет.”

You couldn’t let them take Bucky, couldn’t let them unravel all of the work he’d done. You couldn’t let them murder the person he’d become. Movements weak, you let your eyes flutter closed. After trying so hard, struggling and fighting and grasping and clawing for life, your mind dully told you that this was it. This was how you would go. At least it would be with a fight, you reasoned.

 _Not yet,_ the shadow whispered, cold touch spreading through your mind. _Not yet. Let me take over._

_No. No, never, not in a million years, I will die as myself and not as a delusion my sick brain cooked up—_

_Let me take over._ The dark words branched from your mind and into your limbs, took away the roaring pain in your wrist and arm. _Just for a moment. You can’t die, not yet. And he can’t be used to kill our kind._

Why not? Your mind was desperately trying to hang onto something, anything that would let you survive. Why not let it take over? You were going to die anyways. A pressure built in your temple and you floated, separate from your own body as your eyes snapped open once more. There was a dull ringing in your ears, a frequency that caused the Soldier speaking the trigger words to stumble.

“П- Печь.”

The ringing rose to a fever pitch, vision starting to go dark as your body went limp. Lack of oxygen would surely shut down your mind in a matter of seconds. But the shadow pressed on, ramping it up, vessels rupturing in your eye and blood trickling from your nose. _Just a bit more,_ the shadow said, a desperation in the cold voice of your father. _Just a bit more, just hold on, just let me—_

“Девять. Добросердечный—”

The Soldier’s head exploded. You could hear it clearly, could feel the moment your power swelled and reached its climax. Blood and skull and brain matter rained over the entire room, over you and Bucky and the shocked Soldier who had been at the brink of finally killing you. The ringing in your mind, in your head, fell silent along with the shadow, control placed once more in your hands. The room was still and silent for a long moment, no one daring to even breathe. Then the Soldier’s grip on your throat disappeared and you collapsed, boneless, on the ground. Gasping for air, your vision slowly cleared and you cradled your injured arm to your chest again. Coughing, your other hand coming up to press to your bruising throat, you raised your gaze and met Bucky’s. His grey eyes were wide and he was drenched in blood, headless body of the Soldier slumped over him.

“Что за хрень—” The remaining Soldier started to speak, but was silenced when a fist connected hard with his nose.

He crumpled, and you looked up at Steve Rogers, who shook out his fist. He’d taken off his shirt, ripped it into makeshift bandages that were wrapped around his injured shoulder.

“Sorry I was a bit late.” Rogers pulled Bucky to his feet first, color draining from his face as he stepped away from the body, blood still pumping from what remained of the ragged neck stump. “Fuck.”

Bucky wiped blood from his face with his shirt, stepping over the body and watching the motionless, unconscious Soldier laying just a few feet away from you before holding out his hand to you.

“A bit over the top,” he said, voice rough and blood trickling from a split lip as you took his hand and he effortlessly pulled you to your feet. “But thanks.”

“It was all I could think of,” you rasped, quietly taking responsibility for the kill. Telling him that a voice in your head had taken over… not the smartest move. It was a lie you would have to live with. “Spoiled the best kill in Scanners for you, though.”

“Huh.”

Bucky and Steve both stared down at the headless body for a moment, still seeming to absorb what you’d done. Not only that, but what you were _capable of._ Diving into Bucky’s head, dredging up memories, doing work to undo his programming, that was one thing. But you knew from the looks on their faces that this had changed things. That now, you were dangerous. Because if you could do that while you were being strangled, backed into a corner and desperate, the logical conclusion was that you could do much, much worse.

“We should get out of here.” Rogers was the first to break the tense silence, brow pinched as he looked back over at you. “Cops will be here any minute.”

“I’ll take care of the one you knocked out.” Bucky glanced at you before moving to roll the unconscious soldier onto his stomach, patting him down. “Should have zip ties in the kitchen.”

With a sharp nod, Rogers moved back into the kitchen, drawers opening and closing as he rummaged for what Bucky had requested. Alpine had wandered out into the living room, still cautious, pupils still wide in fear and fur standing on end. Not sure what else to do, you picked her up with your good arm, let her curl around your shoulders again. Rogers returned with the requested zip ties, the two men quickly binding the Soldier’s arms and legs.

“Stevie, my overnight bag is in my closet. Andy…” Bucky trailed off, sitting heavily on the motionless man and sighing. “Get your stuff as quick as you can.”

An apology formed on the back of your tongue, ready to spill past your lips. But you held back, knew that it wouldn’t do much. Not only that, but it would have been a lie. You weren’t sorry. You’d done what you had to, didn’t regret what you… what the shadow had done. But there was still a cold trickle of shame that ran through you as you slunk off to retrieve the few possessions you’d left in the guest room, stuffed them into your bag and tried desperately to block off the thoughts of both Bucky and Rogers, their voices low and hushed as they spoke to one another. You didn’t want to hear what they were thinking, what they were saying. You didn’t want to know, more than you already did, that they were scared of you.

Rogers took your bag, Bucky hauled the unconscious Soldier over his shoulder, and Alpine remained curled on your shoulders as you all rushed out of the apartment. The cops should have already been there, surely. The screaming had been loud enough to rouse at least one person in the brownstone, at least one light sleeper. But there were no approaching sirens, no flashing blue and red lights. Not yet. You didn’t want to think about what that meant as you handed your car keys to Bucky, watched him load the Soldier in the trunk and Rogers tossed your own bag into the backseat with the one that he had retrieved for Bucky.

Once Rogers had slid into the passenger seat and you were settled in the back, Alpine slipping down to curl up in your lap, Bucky peeled out of the parking lot, speeding down back roads and out of the city. Adrenaline fading, time and reality turned liquid and you dully realized that you were in shock. You didn’t want to look down at your wrist and arm, didn’t want to see how it had been mangled so easily.

“Where are we going?” you asked, words slurred and rasping. You could barely even make out your own voice, but you knew that both men had heard you. “Where…”

“Somewhere safe,” Rogers answered, turning in his seat. The makeshift bandages were soaked through with blood, and he looked pale, barely clinging to consciousness like you. “To a doctor who’ll take care of us off the radar.”

“Oh.” You blinked, forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window. He’d been texting on his phone, set it down as he watched you. “Hope he gets me real fucked up on morphine.”

Bucky snorted, taking a sharp turn, already outside the city limits and pushing your little sedan to its limits. Rogers grinned as well, a pained edge to it.

“You and me both,” he said.

Fading in and out of consciousness, you vaguely came back to yourself in a dark tunnel, blinking as you watched Rogers rush through a door. Moving Alpine out of your lap, you started to get out of the car, legs almost buckling once you were standing.

“Whoa, whoa, easy.” Bucky appeared next to you, prosthetic arm slipping around your waist and guiding you to lean against him. “You good?”

“I’m fucked up,” you mumbled back.

“Well, we’re gonna get you fixed.” Picking up Alpine with his other arm, he guided you towards the door, leading you down a dark, damp hall.

“Where are we?” you asked, keeping your injured arm tucked close and leaning heavily against Bucky. He was the only thing keeping you up, your knees feeling like they’d been liquified and your head swimming.

“Old SHIELD facility under a dam,” he replied, glancing down at you. “It’s secure, should be off their radar.”

“Looks like the kinda place you’d make a snuff film in.” A panicked little giggle left you before you could stop it. “I’m up to date on my tetanus shots.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, didn’t laugh. He just kept leading you through dark halls until you reached a large, open room. It was sterile, cleaner than the passages you’d taken, smelled heavily of industrial grade cleaner. A man was already fussing over Rogers, who’d sat down on a stool.

“Your other patient, Doc,” Bucky said.

“Put her on the examination table,” the doctor replied, glancing up briefly from applying pressure to Rogers’ shoulder. “Shock?”

“Yeah. Broken wrist, maybe arm, too.” Bucky’s tone was clipped as he helped you up onto said examination table, setting down Alpine before putting his hands on your shoulders, steadying you. “Andy? You still with me?”

You nodded, trying to focus on his eyes, his face. He was still drenched in blood, reeked of gore, and you knew that you weren’t much better. Alpine had slunk off into the corner, watched all of you with wide blue eyes. Carefully, he guided you to lay down, disappearing for a brief moment before reappearing, stuffing a couple of pillows under your legs to elevate them and draping a blanket over you. It wasn’t until he’d covered you with the thick, warm blanket that you realized you’d been shivering violently. Your breath came in small, panicked gasps, and you stared up at the high ceiling.

“You keep up pressure on the captain’s wound,” you vaguely heard the doctor instruct. He moved your injured arm out from under the blanket, rested it over your stomach. Just the small movement made you hiss in pain, jaw clenched and a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. “I’m Doctor Fine. You’re in good hands.”

“I think I’m gonna puke,” you mumbled back, feeling a rolling wave of nausea as the doctor cut away the sleeve of the sweatshirt. “Oh, god, I’m gonna fucking vomit.”

Just in the nick of time, Bucky appeared with a bucket and the doctor turned you onto your side. Only bile came up, body curling in on itself as you heaved. Once you’d settled and the doctor snapped at him to apply pressure, Bucky moved to make sure that Captain fucking America didn’t bleed out. There were black dots dancing across your vision again, the bitter, acidic remnants of your emptied stomach coating your mouth. The doctor worked quickly, tossing aside the gloves he had been wearing, slipping on new ones, holding up a syringe. The light reflected off the lenses of his glasses, and he met your gaze, must have seen the sudden wriggling of fear that you felt.

“Local anesthetic,” he explained. “There’s… a lot of damage to your wrist and arm.”

Not a comforting thing to hear. That could either mean that you were utterly fucked and the bones had been pulverized, or that there were just enough of them broken that it looked bad. You didn’t want to look. You didn’t want to see what had been done to you. There was a sharp pinch as he injected the anesthetic in your arm, set the needle aside and got to work. Although you couldn’t feel your fingers or your arm, completely disconnected from the limb, you could feel the slip and grind as he tried to set the bones. A feeling that had you feeling sick to your stomach again, the fingers of your other hand clutching the blanket tightly. Time stretched and dilated once more, conversation muffled and distant as you stared up at the ceiling, refused to let go of your weak grasp on consciousness.

“Nat should be here soon.” Couldn’t quite make out who the voice belonged to.

“Is she stable?” A second, unrecognizable voice.

“For the moment. I’ve set up an IV, her breathing is normal so oxygen shouldn’t be needed. She has a splint for the moment, but with the swelling and bruising, that bone that punctured the skin, she may need surgery at some point.” Must be the doctor.

“Bleeding’s stopped.”

“Excellent. I’ll suture the wound. Any injuries, sergeant?”

“Just a couple bruises. Nothing serious.”

“… Hm. Take some painkillers. Tell me if—”

“If I start to get worse, yeah, I got ya.”

You rested your eyelids, just for a minute. But when you opened your eyes again, there was no rush of motion, no desperate voices. Just a gentle tapping against some surface near you, muffled conversation far enough away that you couldn’t pick up on it. There was a weight on your chest, and when you glanced down, you realized Alpine had curled up there to sleep. Taking a deep breath, the cat shifting with the movement, you glanced down at your injured arm. It was bandaged and taped, from your hand up to your elbow, a splint on it. When you tried to twitch one of your fingers, hot pain shot through your whole arm and you hissed, squeezing your eyes shut again. The anesthetic must have been wearing off already. How long had you been asleep? The blanket that had been tucked around you felt stifling, and you wiggled on the table, gently urging a grumpy looking Alpine off of you so that you could toss the blanket off and slowly sit up.

The motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness through you and you braced yourself on your good arm, forcing yourself to take measured breaths until it passed. The IV had already been removed, a bandage in the crook of your elbow, and you swung your legs over the edge of the table. The tapping stopped and when you looked up, you saw Sam Wilson sitting not far from you, an open book on his lap.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he greeted, grinning and carefully placing a bookmark to keep his place before closing the book and setting it aside to stand up. “How you feelin’, Scanner?”

“Like shit,” you said, with some difficulty. God, your throat must have been black and blue. You raised your good hand to it, wincing. You did appreciate the sense of humor, though. “Why didn’t they give me the good shit?”

“As fun as it would be to see you doped up,” Wilson said, helping you stand, “the doc thought it would be best to keep you somewhat lucid.”

He kept a hand on your back, the contact making you want to snarl and flinch away, but keeping you somewhat steady on shaking legs. Once you were certain that you weren’t going to pitch forward and face plant, you drew away from him, glad that he took it graciously and just kept grinning.

“Fuck the doctor,” you rasped. “I fuckin’ hurt. How long was I out?”

“Not long, just a few hours.” Wilson stuck close as you shuffled over to a chair, collapsed into it and kicked your feet up onto a nearby crate. “Didn’t miss much.”

“Where’s Bucky and Cap? The Doc?”

“Cap got stitched up and went right back to work.” Wilson sighed, concern dark in his eyes as he sat down across from you. “Refused to stay down and rest. He’s going to see how much damage was done, how long we all have to lay low. Picking up a few things from some safe houses we don’t think have been compromised yet. Dr. Fine left for a bit to get some equipment, but he’ll be back soon. Needed a few things before he did some surgery to help make sure all those bones of yours set right. Barnes is…”

He trailed off. Glanced behind you, towards the door. That would be what the muffled conversation was, then. Bucky speaking to someone, maybe Natasha.

“He’s extracting information with Nat from the Soldier who didn’t get his head popped like a zit.”

“Oh.”

You knew what that meant; there was no need to elaborate. Bucky and Nat were engaging in some torture, or at least had been. You didn’t try to reach out, read any thoughts near you, for fear that you could pick up on extra pain and fear. As fragile as you were, feeling like a raw, exposed nerve, you didn’t need to make it any worse. Instead, you sighed, closing your eyes and letting your bad arm rest over your stomach.

“You wanna talk about it?” Wilson asked.

You opened one eye, frowning. No, you didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to talk about how you’d briefly thought of your childhood while you were crouched, hiding, and terrified in the kitchen. You didn’t want to talk about your delusions, about how something had taken control of your body and your powers for a short period of time. It only reinforced the fact that you weren’t okay, that you’d only been lying to yourself. Sure, Wilson was a social worker. From what little information you’d gathered, he worked with veterans, and had likely heard and seen worse. But you didn’t want to face that reality. Not then. Not when you were in pain, not when you were sick and weak and sensitive.

“Nice try,” you mumbled, managing a bitter smile. “But I’ll pass.”

“Well, I can at least say that I tried.” Wilson let out a long sigh, standing back up. You watched him, both eyes open. He started for the door, but paused long enough to put a hand on your shoulder. “You did good.”

With that said, he gave your shoulder a small pat and walked out. You didn’t bother to turn and watch him leave, a sinking feeling in your stomach. Because you didn’t do good. He’d heard the story second hand, only knew that you’d pushed yourself past the limit to save Bucky, to keep his programming from being triggered. But he didn’t know that you’d caved, that you were, deep down, still terrified.

He didn’t know that as you closed your eyes and tried to convince yourself that everything was okay, you could still feel the shadow’s cold touch, more present than it had ever been. He didn’t know that you were terrified you would explode, and take all of them down with you.


	8. Losing My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _if i do this, it's for real  
>  there's no turning back  
> there's no turning back..._

Bucky Barnes was avoiding you. It had been two days since you’d both fled to the old hideout located deep within an old, abandoned dam. In that time, the doctor had fixed your wrist, cut into you and set the bones himself. Natasha had brought you a bag of clothes to change into along with your laptop, easily caving to your argument that if they were going to keep you locked up, they should at least let you do some fucking work. Sam had brought you books, food, a sense of humor when it was sorely needed. Even while he was busy doing damage control, running through a long list of safehouses to find out which were compromised, which were safe, who knew about what, Steve had gone out of his way to talk to you as well.

But Bucky? You’d only seen him briefly, a handful of times, hadn’t been able to say a thing before he slipped away. It worried you. Although you still didn’t regret killing the Soldier who had been trying to trigger Bucky’s programming, refused to feel guilt for doing what had to be done, you were concerned that maybe it had been too much. That the shadow had pushed you over a line that even the Winter Soldier wouldn’t have crossed. That the shadow, that _you,_ had triggered ugly memories for him and he was struggling with it.

It pissed you off, too. He’d dragged you into this. He’d asked for your help, knowing that it put you in the line of fire. If he had a problem with you, with what the shadow had done, then he needed to fucking _tell you._ If you didn’t know what you had done wrong, you couldn’t fix it. It was maddening, and the few times that you’d tried to read his mind, figure out what he was thinking, you’d found nothing. An ominous silence, his thoughts controlled since you could have easily picked through them.

With your patience already starting out as dangerously thin, it had been a struggle to keep your temper under control. With your right arm in a sling, you had to type with one hand. Your dominant hand was the one free, thankfully, but it took longer to get lines of code done, to fix bugs that you found. You still had a few days left on your vacation, technically, but with the deadlines you had you knew that you would need extra time. The encrypted hotspot you’d been set up with worked well, but it was tiring lying to your boss and your coworkers about coming back early because oh, poor clumsy you, you fell down a flight of stairs in your hotel and broke your wrist. The pity was cloying (poor Andromeda, losing her grandfather and then breaking her arm and wrist, what a string of terrible luck, let us know if you need anything), wore down your patience even further. Although you could remotely check on the programs you’d set up to take care of your garden, and although they all seemed to be running smoothly, you were still anxious to check on it. The snapdragons had only been planted a couple of weeks before, and if they died—

You wanted to go home. You wanted to get your cast off. You wanted to tend to your garden and play video games with people whose names you didn’t know and order pizza and watch horror movies until you fell asleep. You wanted to go back to the closest to normal you’d ever been. And you wanted to know _what the fuck Bucky’s problem with you was._

Natasha and Sam were both useless. When you asked Natasha what was up with Barnes, she’d just given you a sly smile and asked you how much time you had, because it would take her a few days to get through the whole list. Sam had looked vaguely amused and asked why it bothered you so much, which you didn’t bother to answer with anything other than a scowl and a quick ‘fuck you’. Steve Rogers, on the other hand, had a terrible poker face. When you’d confronted him about what the problem was, he hadn’t been able to look you in the eye and his previously (somewhat) calm string of thoughts turned slightly panicked. He’d shrugged it off, given a pathetic excuse about how Bucky was probably just focusing on the information he’d gathered, that was all. But you knew better.

No one was going to tell you what was going on. But you were going to figure it out yourself.

Cornering him was easier than you’d thought it would be. Even if you couldn’t exactly _hear_ his thoughts, you could sense them, feel his presence like a lure. It probably would have been easy for him to shake you, to hide away until you gave up. He was, after all, the Winter Soldier. But you managed to corner him in one of the side rooms, a rusty cot and moth-eaten blanket in one corner, a chair and desk made of sturdy, dark wood in the other. When you entered, slammed the door shut behind you, he didn’t look up from the dossier he was reading.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, leaning back against the door.

“I’ve been busy,” he replied, long hair hanging in his face, obscuring his expression from you.

“Yeah, so has Captain fucking America, but he’s still had time to check in on me and give me updates on the situation,” you snapped. “You know, since you’re all keeping me locked up in some secret base.”

Bucky sighed, shoulders slumping and his prosthetic hand combing his hair back from his face. There was a weariness in his eyes when he finally looked up at you that almost made you feel guilty for barging in and demanding things of him. _Almost._ Because you were tired, too. Exhausted of the run around, of the avoidance of any real answers, of being kept in the dark despite the fact that you were involved in this shit now. His gaze dropped to your throat, the black bruising that hadn’t yet faded. Expression darkening, he closed the folder, set it on top of the large pile on the top corner of the desk.

“You’re pissed off. I get it.” His voice was strained as he stood up from the desk, folded his arms over his chest. “If you want to go—”

“I do want to go,” you interrupted, glaring up at him. “I have a life outside of this. A job, a psychiatrist who I’m supposed to see again in a couple days, group therapy that we’re _both_ supposed to go to. But I also want to know why you decided to kick me to the curb.”

“That’s not…” He exhaled sharply, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Andy—”

“Once I get the all clear that I’m not gonna be arrested or disappeared from your friends, I’m gonna go home. But I think that I deserve an explanation for why you went from tagging along after me to avoiding me like the plague. Is it because of the murder?”

“No, just… God, will you just _shut up_ for one second?” he snapped, opening one eye, a cold anger in his gaze.

You’d been ready to snap at him, to argue more, to push him into anger so that maybe you could finally get an answer. But you felt whatever you were going to say shrivel up and die at the back of your tongue, uncertain of how to respond to that. Bucky took a deep breath, dropped his hand and looked you in the eye.

“I never should have gotten you involved in this. I was desperate, I wanted to get all of this…” He vaguely gestured to his head, _“shit_ out of my head. Therapists couldn’t do it, experts in deprogramming cult victims couldn’t do it, I was looking at electroshock therapy and hypnotherapy. I was desperate, and you seemed like you would help, and I dragged you into this. I shouldn’t have. You’re a civilian, and I pulled you into a dangerous situation and you got hurt.”

It was then that his guilt hit you. _Hard._ It was drowning, all-consuming, overwhelming, and swallowed your own small streak of guilt. You fought against it, tried to take a deep breath even though it felt like your lungs were being squeezed, your ribs crushed. Keeping eye contact was difficult, but you forced yourself to, swallowing a lump that had suddenly appeared in your throat.

“I’m the one who rushed a crazed super assassin,” you said, giving a half-shrug. “That’s on me. So if this has all just been about you feeling guilty, it’s not your fault. I could have just kept hiding.”

“You could have, but you _didn’t,_ because for all your talk about wanting your privacy and keeping your distance and hating how much people bug you, you had to help,” he said, a sudden force in his voice that surprised him just as much as it did you. “You have a good heart. I saw it, and I took advantage of it. And you got hurt because of it.”

Bucky didn’t know. He didn’t know because _you hadn’t told him._ The few times you’d even allowed him a glimpse into your less than normal childhood, it had been in snippets that made it seem like the only thing different about you was that your uncles were blue and furry and your classmates were scaled, or made of slime, or had six eyes. You’d joked about your aunts and uncles, taken on the tone you’d perfected over the years that made people question whether you were crafting fanciful stories to hide your past or if it was the actual truth.

“If you think that I have a good heart,” you began, reaching up to readjust your sling, “you’re dumber than I thought. Maybe I was just a little bored. Maybe I wanted to use my powers again after so long. And like I said, I made the choice to run out and start a fight. I may be… _small,_ compared to you. But I’m not useless in a fight. I was just weak, tired, still in a little bit of pain.”

“I’m not trying to say that you’re useless in a fight. But Steve and I have training, experience, and you—”

“So do I.” You interrupted him, tilting your chin up, eyes narrowed.

“I… what?”

“I have training, too. My childhood wasn’t… typical.”

Bucky looked deeply uncertain, the intensity slowly fading from his expression. You pressed on, taking a step forward.

“I’m hurt because I made the decision to jump into the fight. Not out of some good heart that you’ve decided I have, but because I was trained to fight when I was a kid. I may be a little rusty, and I wasn’t in the best condition to take down two men bigger, faster, and stronger than me. But the fight was won. That’s what matters, isn’t it?” you asked.

“You could have died,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t. I killed instead.”

Silence stretched, Bucky staring down at you and you staring right back up at him. The room was still, his mind troubled, uncertain. You tried to give him some privacy with his thoughts, but still caught small snippets. Concern, frustration, anger. Not anger at you, but at himself. He finally sighed, slumping and running his hands through his hair.

“I don’t know how to get you out of this,” he admitted.

“I think we’re past the point of no return on that,” you told him, trying to smile, trying to joke. But the words came out bitter, left a bad taste on your tongue. “You have a really bad habit of blaming yourself for every bad thing that happens around you. You know that?”

“I am responsible for this,” he said, voice flat.

“Mm, no.” You tilted your head, watched as he turned away from you and began to pace. “You’re responsible for _asking_ me to get involved. Well, more like begging. And maybe you’re responsible for those two assholes hunting you down. But I made the decision to get involved. If I’d said no, you would’ve accepted that, right?”

Bucky paused long enough to give a grunt of assent before going back to his pacing. He reminded you of a dog in a kennel, ready to break out and get back to hunting, to running free.

“I could’ve just said no, gone back home, and settled back into my usual routine. I mean, fuck, I’d love to get back to that now. But I’m involved now.” When he flinched, you let out a long sigh, hesitating for a moment before taking a few more steps forward and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t mean that as like… an accusation, or whatever. I mean, am I happy about this? No. Give me a couple hours and I’ll go right back to bitching about it and how I miss my computer set up at home. But I don’t blame you for this. I got all caught up in the stupidity of altruism and got my own dumb ass involved.”

Grey eyes flicking down to where your hand rested, Bucky took a deep breath. That troubled, miserable look still hadn’t left, seemed permanently glued to his face. You wanted to make a joke about the ugly wrinkles he’d get from making that face, but now wasn’t the time. Even _you_ could see that. Gently, as if you were made of porcelain and glass, he took your wrist and removed your hand from his shoulder. His hand was warm and you realized, with a start, that you’d never felt his right hand before, not outside of his dreams and his mind. Always his prosthetic, always cool metal that warmed quickly. But the touch disappeared quickly and he took a small step away from you, couldn’t look you in the eye.

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say,” he said, corner of his mouth almost twitching into an approximation of a smile.

A startled laugh escaped you and you punched his (non-prosthetic, you didn’t want to break _both_ your hands) arm lightly. He rubbed lightly at the spot, but a bit of the darkness in his expression had slipped away. Not enough, and you could still feel the guilt that was weighing him down, threatening to drown him. But it was better.

“Yeah, well, I have a low tolerance for stupid, self-blaming bullshit.”

“So, you talk more when you’re pissed off?” he snorted, raising an eyebrow. “Good to know.”

“Don’t push it.” You jabbed a finger at him. “Not unless you want your head popped next.”

A terribly dark joke, one that was probably made far too soon. But he still let out another snort, crooked smile just a little less sad.

“That was, uh… That was impressive,” he admitted.

It was terrifying, actually. But he didn’t need to know that. The shadow, which had been blessedly quiet since you’d come to the hideout, was something that you would take care of yourself. One way or another. Bucky and his friends didn’t need to get involved. And if it got worse, if it returned and you became a threat to everyone around you again…

You’d deal with that if it ever came to pass. And you prayed that it never would.

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged, hoping that you were succeeding at seeming casual about it. “Much as I would’ve liked to have seen if the counterprogramming worked, I panicked.”

“Probably best that we didn’t test it out in that situation,” he sighed.

After another long, awkward pause, you cleared your throat and glanced over at the documents on the desk.

“Some of what you got from your time alone with the Soldier?” you asked.

Bucky hesitated for a moment. The argument he was having with himself was visible on his face and he eventually sighed, resting a hand over the stack.

“Some of it is from Josef. The rest is from Natasha calling in some favors from Ukraine,” he said. “Just… trying to figure out what happened to the other three.”

“Hm.” That was something you possibly could have offered to help with; not _strictly_ legal, of course. But you knew how to cover your tracks, no matter what databases you needed to crack into. Better to hold that close to your chest until they asked, you decided. “I’d ask what you’ve found but I don’t think I want to know.”

“No,” he sighed, “I don’t think you do.”

“What about… Josef, right?”

“Natasha is taking care of it with Sam.” A vague answer, but probably for the best.

“Well.” That was… really all that you had to ask him. Part of you had expected the confrontation to be uglier, turn into a screaming fit. But you should have known better. For all of his guilt, his emotional turmoil, Barnes didn’t have the temper that you did. Even tempered out of necessity, afraid of what he was capable of, what he could do if he lost control. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Before you could retreat, go curl up in the room you’d set yourself up in and bury yourself in work to try and forget the sudden awkward atmosphere you’d created, he cleared his throat.

“Uh… thanks,” he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck and staring down at the ground.

“For what?” you snorted, leaning against the doorway. “Kinda helped make this more of a mess.”

“For helping me.” When he glanced up, there was a vulnerability in his gaze that made you want to shrivel up, slink away and pray that the earth would split open and swallow you whole. “You didn’t have to. And… I know it took a toll on you. Thank you. Just… wanted to say that.”

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged, uncomfortable with the sincere gratitude. “You’re welcome or whatever.”

Before he could respond further, you ducked out into the hall, powerwalking as fast as you could back through the winding passageways to your temporary room. But you couldn’t escape the way your pulse had suddenly spiked, your heart feeling like a caged bird desperately trying to escape your rib cage, or the heat that had risen to your face.

Oh, this was _so much worse_ than you had thought.

\---

“So, you went full Carrie?”

Biting back a heavy sigh, you set down a mug of coffee in front of Sam. He had driven you back to your house, Bucky following in your car, after it had been confirmed you were in the clear the day after your confrontation, and you had (stupidly) thought it would be polite to at least invite them in for coffee. This line of questioning was your own fault. Sam had asked why you’d moved to DC, you vaguely mentioned the incident in Boston and… well, here you were.

“No,” you told him, struggling to remain patient as you set down another mug of coffee for Bucky. “No one died.”

“Yeah, but you went like… full psionic meltdown,” Sam pointed out. “Someone set up a bucket of pig blood on the front door to prank you when you got home from work?”

You knew that he was joking in an attempt to lighten up the mood, to have you approach it with a sense of humor. But you still bristled at his tone, at the way he grinned as he took a sip of coffee. Pouring your own cup of coffee and skipping the creamer (you were pretty sure it was out of date by now), you didn’t sit down at the little kitchen table with them. Instead, you stood at the other end, the black coffee tasting more bitter than usual as you drank it.

“Don’t really wanna talk about it,” you said, tone sharper than you meant it to sound.

Bucky flinched, staring down at the mug in his hands, and took a long, slow sip. Sam, thankfully, picked up on your tone.

“Right. Sorry.” His smile was, at least, apologetic. But you still found yourself bristling, grip on the ceramic handle of your oversized mug white-knuckled. “Just curious, and sometimes joking around can help when it comes to talking about difficult things, so—”

“It’s fine.” You interrupted him, waving your other hand in a vague gesture, dismissing his apology. “Long story short: my ex was a piece of shit, I was off my meds, and I had a full-on meltdown. Got charges dropped, but I figured it was about time I moved.”

Shrugging, you played it as casual as you could. A whole year out, but it still felt like a raw nerve sometimes. Even with your medications keep you (mostly, you’d deal with the fallout of the shadow later) lucid and grounded in reality, even with your depressive episodes kept manageable, even with your psychiatrist and your therapist and group and the casual relationships you’d formed to help stabilize you, there were still moments when you could feel the heat of the flames on your back, the weight of the house collapsing around you.

“You know,” Bucky said softly, “we’re not gonna judge you.”

“Yeah,” Sam chimed in, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, we’ve got Manchurian Candidate right here, America’s favorite popsicle, and Nat is her own whole can of worms. I’m the most normal out of our merry band of misfits, which is saying something. None of us have got a right to judge.”

“Well.” You shrugged again, stiff, and glanced down at the cast on your wrist. Natasha had placed stickers on it, flowers and little smiling suns that she thought were hilarious, and Steve had drawn a few little doodles on it as well. Weird little reminders of sudden bonds forged, ones you had never imagined making. “I’m not exactly the sharing type. So, that’s great. But I don’t really talk about my own shit.”

“We’ll figure you out eventually,” Sam said, his smile genuine. “The mysterious act will crack eventually. It always does.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Wilson,” you sighed, rolling your eyes.

Although he chuckled, Bucky was still silent. When you glanced at him, he lowered his gaze quickly, hair falling in his face as he sipped at his coffee. Weird. You’d thought that your confrontation with him would have cleared the air, but it seemed that something had caused a strained, awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Maybe it was just you. After all, you’d… well, you’d made the whole thing _worse._ It would have been easy to just dip into his thoughts, have a quick look, figure out what was going on. But there was some part of you that didn’t want to know, that was afraid to find out. That, and you figured you’d done more than enough digging around in his head. If you ever slipped back in, it would have to be at his request and with his permission. And even then… Even then you weren’t sure if you would want to.

Not until you figured out what was going on with your own mind.

“You’ve probably got a lot of things to do,” Bucky finally said, finishing off his coffee and setting the empty mug down gently on the table. “We should head out, Wilson.”

“Wouldn’t want to steal more of your time from you,” Sam conceded, mug only half empty as he stood from the table. “We’ll make sure the doc gets in touch with you about your cast.”

It had only been a few minutes, and they were already leaving. You reminded yourself that it was a good thing, that you could finally get your privacy back. And god, you had so many appointments to reschedule and work to get done so that you met your deadlines. Plus, you needed to check on your snapdragons. But there was still a very small part of you that sank when Bucky stood as well, giving you a small, sad little smile. Sam glanced between the two of you, lips curling into an infuriatingly knowing smile before he ruffled your hair.

“See you around. I’ll go warm up the car, Barnes.” Before you could slap at his hand or snarl at him, he gave a little wave and strolled out of the house.

Setting down your mug, you reached up to smooth down your hair, a strange tension in the room. Neither you or Bucky could look at one another, and he slowly pushed in the chairs he and Sam had been sitting in before letting out a low sigh.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low. “Again. I, um… I’m sorry about… everything.”

“Yeah, well, like I said.” You shrugged, pressing the half-empty mug against your chest. “Made all my choices myself. Don’t kick your own ass too much about it.”

“I’ll try.” When you finally glanced up, Bucky smiled back at you, rubbing at the back of his neck. The bruises on his face had already faded to the point of being close to fully healed, but the dark bags under his eyes had only darkened further. Had he gotten any sleep at all, in those few days in that hideout under the dam? “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you at group?”

There was a hope in his voice that made your chest ache, made you want to look away. The smart thing for you to do would be to try and distance yourself. Even though your mind gravitated towards his, even though the quiet surface thoughts you could barely pick up on had started to feel terrifyingly familiar, it would have been better for him if you quietly cut ties and found a different therapy group to go to. The few friends you did have were long distance or casual, work friends or ones that you played League with. Because when people got too close, they got sucked into the gravity well of misfortune that seemed to be planted at the very core of you. Bucky had gone through enough. With the shadow having taken control, doing _anything_ in his head would be dangerous.

But…

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a small, hesitant smile. “I’ll see you at group, Bucky.”

Visibly relieved, his shoulders slumped as he let out a long sigh. He walked around the table, hesitated for a moment when he was only a few steps away from you. When he rested his hand on top of your head, you had to fight your natural instinct to recoil, like you had with Sam. Giving your hair a small, awkward pat, he pulled away and walked towards the front door. You followed, leaning against the open doorway and watching as he stepped off the front porch, made his way to Sam’s car. There was a small honk of the horn and you rolled your eyes, giving a half-hearted wave and swearing you could hear Sam’s muffled laughter. Bucky stopped halfway to the car and turned back to you, hands curling into loose fists.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, “okay?”

Weird, that he had needed to brace himself to say that. But you gave him a small nod, the smile tugging at your lips closer to genuine.

“Try to do the same,” you told him. “Not much use in all that work we’ve done if you go and throw it away. Group would be boring, too.”

Snorting, he gave a small nod in return, hesitated. Bucky started to say something, but then snapped his mouth shut and gave a barely imperceptible shake of his head. With a small wave, he climbed into the car. You waited until they had pulled out of the driveway, watched as they drove out of sight, before you went back inside, closed the door, and quietly slid the locks back into place.

You took a deep breath, looked out over your too-tidy living room and the little dining nook, basked in the sudden silence. A comforting thing but also, after days of being around other people, a bit unsettling. There was a long list of things for you to do, and as you shuffled down the hall, kicking off your shoes and setting your cooling coffee down on your desk, you quickly set priorities. Once your computer was powered up, the soft glow of the monitors comforting, you ignored the mass of work emails you needed to power through. Instead, you drafted up a new email, removing your arm from the sling so you could at least attempt to type properly.

But your fingers faltered over the keyboard, all the words that had brewed like a storm in the back of your mind suddenly running dry, a bitter taste on your tongue. You didn’t want to do this. However, you had a terrible suspicion that the shadow was more than it seemed, feared that your psychiatrist wasn’t qualified to deal with it. Very few people were. Taking a deep breath, you tried to convince yourself that you were doing the right thing as you wrote an email to Kurt Wagner for the first time in almost a decade.

You didn’t know who was alive and who was dead, other than him. He had never mentioned it in his letters, his care packages that had come to you less frequently. But even if your grandfather and Jean Grey were dead, you knew that if there was one person who would drop everything to help you, it would be your Uncle Kurt.

All you could do was pray that you weren’t making a terrible mistake. Because the more you thought about it, the more you feared that the shadow wasn’t just a product of your fucked up brain chemistry, but something far, far worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that this chapter took a while, but life has been... well, hectic, to say the least. this isn't my best chapter ever, but i needed a transition to the next section and here we are. 
> 
> just as a heads up, updates on this fic are going to be very slow in november. i'm participating in national novel writing month, have a few interviews lined up for (hopefully) a new job, and i have a couple other projects i'm working on. 
> 
> love y'all. take care of yourselves.


	9. Phobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _it may be rage or may be hope  
>  i'm at the stage that i fear the most_

Group was, somehow, even more painful than it had been in previous sessions. You’d lucked out and winter had come early to DC, giving you a good excuse to keep on the scarf you wore to hide the still-dark bruises around your neck. But the sling and the cast? They drew attention. You’d worked hard to try and blend into the background, to keep attention away from yourself. But for a whole hour, curious glances were cast towards you. The therapist who ran group had asked you briefly about it at the beginning of the session, had accepted your half-hearted excuse of falling. But the others? Their curiosity hadn’t been sated. You’d have to book it the moment the therapist ended the session, if you wanted to avoid the ones who were brave enough to approach you.

Bucky had sat down next to you and made it even worse. Neither of you had made any efforts to really participate in group, to talk to the others. The two prickly, uncooperative ones suddenly being friends? Oh, that was juicy news. It drew more attention and only made you sink further in the little plastic chair, good arm wrapped tightly around your bag, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Either Bucky didn’t notice, or he didn’t care, slumped back in his chair and looking relaxed. You would have reached out, touched his mind to see what was really going on. But with the Shadow still looming so ever-present in your own head, you didn’t want to risk it.

The last thing Bucky Barnes needed was for whatever was wrong with your head to infect his own.

His presence in the chair next you was… _nice_ , though. Whether that was a good or a bad thing, you weren’t quite sure yet. Clearly, you’d gotten attached during the time you’d spent in his head, sorting through his memories, building counter-programming in his mind. And, at some level you weren’t sure you wanted to know, he’d gotten attached to you, too. His mind brushed too easily against your own, reached out towards it instinctively, even as you consciously kept yourself from reading the thoughts of everyone in the room.

The moment the therapist ended the session, you were out of your chair, ignoring the painful way your arm was jostled in your rush, bag haphazardly slung over your shoulder. There was chatter behind you, a few lingering thoughts that slipped through the patchwork wall you’d built, but you ignored them. If you got to your car quickly, you could get home before anyone caught up with you and—

“Andy.”

Gloved fingers wrapped around your wrist, stopping your escape even though there was no real pressure. Just a simple touch and your feet were rooted to the ground, muscles tensed. You swallowed a lump in your throat, heart doing a strange little jump when you turned and looked up at Bucky. He’d pulled his hair up in a loose bun, a few strands falling in his face, eyes narrowed in confusion and concern.

“Are… you okay?” he asked, uncertainty creeping into his tone.

“Uh,” you said, kicking yourself internally. If he hadn’t known something was up before, he would now from the way your voice broke. Clearing your throat, you pulled your wrist from his grip, avoiding eye contact and watching the way his fingers flexed, just before he shoved his hands into his pockets. _Odd._ “Fine. I guess.”

“You guess?” he asked, tone dry.

Heaving a sigh, you finally met his eye, bristling slightly at his wry amusement. Adjusting the strap of your bag, you hesitated for a moment before finally deciding that, perhaps, honesty was in fact the correct route to take with him.

“I’m tired,” you admittedly slowly, “and I have a lot of work to catch up on. Everything that happened at your place, at the dam, has been… a lot to deal with.”

Technically not a lie, even if you were omitting the specifics. Bucky didn’t need to know about the Shadow. He didn’t need to know that you were questioning everything around you once more, had asked your psychiatrist to change your medication. And if he asked you to dig around in his head, well… you’d come up with an excuse to say no to that later.

“You haven’t been answering my texts.” Bucky’s voice was soft, the concerned furrow in his brow only deepening. He’d moved closer to you, and you weren’t sure he’d even realized it, head bowed towards your own. “I was worried.”

“I’ve just been busy,” you lied, struggling to maintain eye contact.

Bucky was silent for a long, uncomfortable moment, dark grey eyes searching your expression. Looking for something. A twitch of a facial muscle, maybe, a sign that you were lying. You weren’t sure if he found what he was looking for. But he sighed, closing his eyes and running a hand over his face. He looked weary, the constant dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced, dark stubble growing into a proper beard. You gripped the strap of your bag tighter, tense as you watched him and suppressed a sudden, baffling instinct to reach out and touch him.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he rasped. “I… but if I did anything to… I mean…”

Guilt. It slammed into you hard, making it hard to breathe for a second. Whether it was his guilt you were picking up on or your own, you weren’t sure. Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you hesitated for only a moment before finally giving in and reaching out, resting a hand on his arm.

“You’ve gotta stop with all the man pain,” you told him, grinning when his eyes snapped open and he looked at you in surprise. “You didn’t do anything. Stop blaming yourself for mistakes that don’t exist.”

“Only if you get better at answering me,” he responded, lips twitching into a grin.

“Deal.” You pulled your hand back, trying not to think about how warm he was, how you’d felt his muscles jump under your touch.

“Do you…” Bucky hesitated for a moment, uncertain. He cleared his throat, shifted on his feet, looked away from you. Nervous. “If you feel up to it, do you want to—”

Whatever he was going to ask was cut short as you heard voices coming from down the hall, the rest of group coming up from the basement room. You tensed, glancing at the door behind you. Bucky followed your gaze, shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly before he looked back down at you.

“You should go,” he said. “Before the others catch up and interrogate you.”

“Do you want to come back to my house with me?” you blurted, horrified by the question even as you asked it. _Where the hell had this come from?_ “Uh. I mean. Not sure I’m up to digging around in your head, but—”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s response was blurted as well, a flush to his ears as he stepped forward, pushed the door open for you. “Yeah, that… that would be nice.”

Rushing out the door, you pulled up your scarf as a blast of cold air hit you, hoping that if he asked why your face was flushed, you could wave it off as a simple reaction to the cold. You dug out your keys from your bag, far too aware of Bucky following you closely, footfalls heavy as you both fled to your car. Breath fogging in front of you, you unlocked it, glanced over at him as he moved around to the passenger side. With a speed that was undeniably reckless, you started the car and peeled out of the parking lot, glancing in the rearview mirror as you drove away just in time to see the rest of group filing out of the building. Slumping in relief, you sighed and turned your attention back to the road. Normally, you would have taken the scenic route, taken your time in getting back to your house. But you were keenly aware of Bucky in the passenger seat next to you, adjusting the seat so that his knees weren’t pressed up against his chest. Your little car wasn’t exactly designed for tall people, and he eventually gave up after a few minutes, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

“So,” you said, desperate to break the silence that had fallen in the car. “How is Alpine?”

Simply mentioning the cat’s name made the man visibly brighten, and you could see him turn to face you from the corner of your eye.

“She’s good, now that we’re not holed up in that hideout. She was miserable there,” he sighed, folding his arms over his chest.

It had been days since you’d last talked to him, and you doubted that he’d returned to his old apartment. Not after the destruction there.

“Where are you staying?” you asked.

“Little rental house,” he told you, “not far from Steve’s place. It was one of Nat’s safehouses, and since it wasn’t compromised, she let me move in.”

That seemed fast. But they were efficient, well trained, good at their jobs. Even harboring doubt that the situation was under control had been foolish on your part. They’d dealt with worse. But it didn’t stop you from worrying if it was wise for Bucky to come out from hiding so quickly. The man was surely on the kill list of whatever remained of HYDRA, of the Winter Soldiers who still remained. Hell, you suspected he was probably high on a list of wanted individuals internationally and only remained free because of his friendship with Steve Rogers.

“What did that cost you?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Six months of keeping her halva supply stocked,” he chuckled, leaning further back and turning to stare out the window, bright lights of the city fading as you drove away from it and towards the suburbs you resided in. “Could have been worse.”

“Halva?” you asked, butchering your pronunciation of the word.

That got Bucky’s attention. His head whipped towards you, and from the edge of your vision, you could see that his eyes had gone wide.

“You’ve never had halva?” he asked, horror in his voice.

“I don’t even know what it is,” you admitted, taking the exit for your neighborhood.

“Candy,” he said, shifting in the car seat and wincing when he slammed his knee against the dashboard. “They make it with sunflower seeds in Russia. Nat eats it by the truckload, so I have to find a supplier. You’ve gotta try it. It’s not half bad.”

“I’ll pass,” you said, snorting. “Don’t want to interrupt the supply chain.”

Silence fell once more, but a comfortable one, this time. You let the radio play at a low volume, fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the rhythm of each of the songs. Bucky hummed along, picking up each tune surprisingly easily. By the time you pulled up to your home, it seemed as if very little time had passed. You killed the ignition, started to reach for your bag in the backseat. But Bucky grabbed it before you could, shooting you a smug grin before ducking out of the car. Swallowing a complaint, you jogged to catch up with him, shooting him an unamused glare before unlocking the door and letting him in first.

“Coffee?” you asked, flicking on the lights and moving through the living room into the kitchen.

Bucky set down your bag on an armchair first, steps quiet as he followed behind you. For a man of his size, you expected him to be louder, and nearly jumped when you turned to find him standing close to you. Coughing to cover up the yelp that had almost left you, you pulled off your scarf and draped it over a chair next to the island. You turned your back to Bucky as he pulled off his jacket, a strange heat pooling in the pit of your stomach.

“Sure,” he said. “Won’t be getting much sleep tonight anyways.”

“Although I consider it a waste,” you told him, stretching up on the tips of your toes to reach the cabinet where you kept your coffee, “I do have decaf, if you’re feeling like a coward.”

A sudden warmth at your back was all the warning you got before Bucky reached over you, easily grabbing a container of your favorite light roast. You faltered, tipping your head back to look at him and willing yourself not to burst into flame when the back of your head pressed against his chest. His other hand rested on the counter next to your hip, effectively boxing you in. Lips twitching into a smirk, he lingered for a moment longer before pressing the container into your hand and taking a step back.

“Hate for you to think I’m a coward,” he said. “Might want to look at investing in a step stool, if you have that much trouble reaching your own coffee.”

Face flushing, you glared at him, telling yourself that it was only anger that made your skin feel hot. Slamming the container down on the counter, you set up a full pot to brew, trying to ignore the waves of amusement coming off of Bucky. A guest in your own home and he was antagonizing you, the stupid tall bastard.

“Not my fault they build everything for giants,” you muttered, taking down two mugs and filling one of them for Bucky. You set it down in front of him with a little more violence than was necessary, eyes narrowing when he smirked at you. “I was going to offer leftover pizza, but you can feed yourself later.”

“Only leftover pizza?” he asked, sipping his coffee.

“I don’t cook,” you stated, pouring yourself a cup as well and leaning back against the counter. Although the warm ceramic felt nice against your chilled fingers, you set the mug down for a moment so that you could shrug off your own jacket, unclipping the sling as well. “So it’s leftover takeout or nothing.”

The loud growl that left Bucky’s stomach was all the answer you need. He flushed when you chuckled, draping the sling and jacket over the same chair you’d put your scarf on as you crossed over to the fridge. You could feel his gaze on you as you opened it, pulled out what remained of the Hawaiian pizza you’d ordered the night before. Setting it down on the kitchen island he’d sat down at, you took one of the slices, happily eating it cold. Bucky looked scandalized, setting down his coffee.

“You’re eating it _cold?_ ” he demanded.

“Yeah,” you said through a mouthful of food, finishing off the slice and scratching at your cast. “Times have changed, old man. Cold pizza is superior.”

Although he still didn’t look at all convinced, Bucky picked up a slice. You smirked as he devoured it and picked up a second piece, retrieving your new medications and diligently taking them. Five pills now, a new cocktail of antidepressants, antipsychotics, and pain killers to suppress whatever was happening to your brain and your body. Setting them back into their neat little line, you glanced up to find Bucky watching you as he finished off a third slice.

“What?” you snapped, anger trying to mask your embarrassment.

“You have new pills,” he said, each word spoken carefully. In the short space of time he’d known you, it seemed he’d picked up on how to carefully navigate your temper. When you held his gaze, didn’t immediately explode, he continued. “Are you okay?”

Well, shit. You’d wanted to slowly work up to that, not jump right in. Clearing your throat, you took a moment to sip at your coffee, take a bite of your pizza. Bucky watched you the whole time with open concern, setting down his food. Your stomach twisted in knots and what little appetite you had disappeared. Delivering bad news was never fun, and the fact that he was more worried about _you_ than about himself made it so much worse. Setting aside your unfinished slice, you forced yourself to meet his eye and took a deep breath.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

Bucky’s frown only deepened and he pushed the box of pizza away, leaning forward. You caught the thought before he could say it out loud, holding your hand up just as he opened his mouth to speak.

“It’s not because of what happened with the Soldiers. Not… really. It’s not your fault. Don’t—I see that look, Bucky Barnes.” You set down your mug, leaned forward when you caught the way his eyes and thoughts were darkening. “ _It’s not your fault._ I was sick long before I met you. I’ll keep being sick. Sometimes I get better, and other times I get worse.”

“But the downswings can get triggered,” Bucky mumbled, gaze dropping to his hands. He’d taken off his gloves at some point and you watched each individual join in his prosthetic hand flex and shift, the way his flesh knuckles turned white as he curled the other hand into a fist. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“We already talked about this.” You heaved a long sigh. “I’m not going to keep arguing with you about how this isn’t your fault. But…” You hesitated. Watched the joints of his metallic fingers shift and move, couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye. “I… saw something. Or thought I saw something. Thought I heard someone in my head. If I’m having delusions again, it’s not safe for me to be digging around in your head. And you need a break. Need to… to rest after all the work we did.”

“There’s something else.”

It wasn’t a question. When you looked up, finally met Bucky’s grey eyes, his brow was furrowed, hands clenched into tight fists as he searched your face. Had you slipped? Were you getting worse at keeping your emotions carefully tucked away, where no one else could see them? You rubbed at your face, let out a long, tired sigh.

“… I’m heading back to New York for a while,” you admitted. “Not forever. I’ll still be working. But I… I want a doctor who knows about my mutation to take a look at my brain. Make sure it’s not something… well, _worse._ ”

“How long?” Bucky’s voice was calm, but the joints in his prosthetic creaked from how hard he was clenching his fist.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Could be a few days. Could be a few weeks. Kind of depends on what they find.”

“You’re going back to the school.”

With a defeated huff, you dropped your hand from your face and gave him a weary look.

“I’m supposed to be the only mind reader here,” you said, the attempt at a joke falling horrifically flat.

“You haven’t told me… a whole lot about that place,” Bucky said, once again picking his words carefully, navigating your emotional minefield with a grace that had a strange feeling blooming in your chest. “But I know why you left. Why you stayed away. If you’re going back there after all these years…”

“I’ll be safe there, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You managed a small, sad smile, pulling out a chair from the island opposite him so you could sit and lean towards him. “Safer than any other place in the world, if I’m being honest. The worst that’ll happen is having awkward interactions with estranged family, that’s all.”

Slowly, you watched his fists unclench, the tension in his shoulders easing incrementally. He was still visibly unhappy, concerned. But you’d take it. Before you could overthink it, you reached out, placing your hand over his prosthetic one, the metal cool and smooth under your touch. Bucky jolted, but didn’t pull away. When you met his eyes, they were wide, startled like a deer in headlights.

“I wanted to tell you,” you continued, voice soft. “Before I left. I didn’t want to just… disappear on you for god knows how long. You should focus on trying to unravel some of those memories yourself while I’m gone. Just think of how it felt when I did it, and you should be able to—”

“I’m going with you,” Bucky blurted.

The two of you stared at one another for a long moment, both startled by his statement. Before you could refuse, he leaned forward in his chair, turned his hand so that his fingers closed around your own. His face was so close, and you could faintly smell the aftershave he used, see a few pale freckles you’d never realized he had on the bridge of his nose—

“I’m going with you,” he repeated, voice low and a determined look in his eyes. “You helped me out. Saved my life. The least I can do is be there with you for this.”

“Bucky.” Your voice cracked and you weren’t sure if the flush rising in your skin was from embarrassment or the way he was looking at you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “You can’t come with me.”

“I don’t want to intrude on something personal or anything like that,” Bucky continued, looking more desperate. “But I’d feel better if… if I was there. With you. To help however I can.”

 _You can’t help me,_ a vicious little voice in your head hissed out. You pushed it away before it could gain more traction, even though you knew it was right. Bucky couldn’t help you. He may have been a super soldier, may be stronger and faster than any human you knew. But none of that was going to help with whatever was happening in your mind. He didn’t know how psionic brains worked, didn’t know about the intricacies of mutant biology, couldn’t dip into your mind and delicately pick it apart to see what the root cause of the issue was. If you were heading into a fight, you would’ve gladly had him at your side. But he couldn’t punch this problem away.

“I…” You took a deep breath, knew you had to be careful with what you were about to say. Because if you weren’t, you were going to hurt him _deeply._ “Bucky, _you can’t come with me._ This is a place that’s a haven for mutants, where mutant kids can feel safe for once in their lives. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but bringing someone who used to work for HYDRA there… I couldn’t do that. I have my issues with the man who runs the school, but I still respect his vision for the institute.”

The moment you saw the dull pain in Bucky’s expression, you regretted saying anything. But you couldn’t lie to him, either. If you didn’t lay out the truth right there for him, he would keep pushing, keep trying. You desperately wanted a friendly face at your side as you walked back into a past you’d carefully left behind you, but Bucky… Bucky wasn’t the right choice. None of his little group were. He didn’t pull away, though. He only gripped your hand tighter, pain replaced by hard determination once more.

“I’ll give them all the information I have on HYDRA,” he said. “Whatever they want. And if they turn me away at the door, then I’ll respect it. But I at least want to try. You shouldn’t be alone in this.”

Frustration began to bubble up, but you were careful not to let in spill over.

“You’re so fucking _stubborn,_ ” you grumbled. With your other hand in a cast, you couldn’t bring it up to rub at the headache slowly blooming in your temples. Instead, you let your head fall to rest on the cool marble of the kitchen island, fingers curling ever so slightly in response around Bucky’s. With your face hidden from view, you let the flush heat up your face, rise unbidden to your skin. “You’re going to come with me no matter what I say, aren’t you?” you asked, voice muffled.

“Glad you figured it out,” he said, chuckling. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a movement so small that you almost didn’t catch it. But it had your heart beating at a strange, frantic pace, your fingers twitching in his grip. “I won’t start a fight or anything. If they turn me away, I’ll go. But you’re my friend, Andy. I’m not gonna leave you high and dry when you need someone there with you.”

Right. A friend. You weren’t sure why there was a little sting at the word. After all, you _knew_ that he was your friend. You’d said as much yourself. Tucking that little emotion away with all the others you had no time or patience for, you slowly raised your head, praying that your face didn’t look as flushed as it still felt. Bucky was grinning when you finally looked at him, the expression so fond it made your chest ache. Clearing your throat, you carefully pulled your hand away from his, fingers curling at the sudden loss of his sturdy touch, the way the metal warmed under your skin. You shoved your hands in your lap, hid the way they clenched, the way you wanted to reach back out for him.

“Well,” you said, heaving a dramatic sigh and leaning back in your chair. “If nothing else, showing up after a decade of estrangement with a former HYDRA agent at a school for mutants is pretty on brand for me.”

“Don’t think they’d expect anything less from you.” Bucky laughed, a deep, full sound that came from his chest. It reverberated in the kitchen, made your lips tug up into a half-hearted smile. “You know that Alpine will be coming, too, right?”

“Of course.”

Bucky going anywhere for a long amount of time without his comfort animal? Unlikely. She’d keep him grounded in ways that you couldn’t. And, frankly, you’d be glad to have her along. But there was still one issue, which you’d have to tackle by yourself.

How the hell were you going to tell Kurt about the ex-HYDRA assassin you would be bringing with you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. hello friends. it's been a while! november was a wild month for me. i started up nanowrimo but it fell by the wayside because......
> 
> i got a job as a banker!! 
> 
> there's been a lot to learn and i've been working long hours so that's why it took so long for me to get this chapter out. it's a bit of a filler, i know, but i wanted some sweet little yearning before i throw the two kiddos right into the middle of the chaos that is the x-men. i'm hoping to get the next chapter out faster than this one, but if it takes me another month to get it out, please be patient with me!! i love this fic, and i'm gonna see it through to the end.
> 
> love y'all. take care of yourselves.


	10. Waiting for the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: mention of domestic abuse, mention of suicidal ideation, implications of mind control and loss of self
> 
> _sitting in an empty room  
>  trying to forget the past  
> this was never meant to last  
> i wish it wasn't so_

The first sign that something was wrong was the sign at the entrance of the driveway. For all your young life, it had only ever read one thing: the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. A purposely obscure name, the true purpose of it hidden behind paperwork claiming the children and young adults housed there were all in need of a different kind of education, a special place to reside in and learn. A safe haven for mutant children and adults, carefully tucked away in upstate New York and protected by the hush money Xavier paid the right people. But now, sitting in the passenger seat of Bucky’s car with Alpine curled up asleep on your lap, the sign said something different. Now, it was the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning. If Bucky noticed the way you tensed, paid much more attention to the sign than was usual, he didn’t say anything.

In fact, he’d been carefully quiet for most of the four and a half hour drive up. Most of the trip had been spent listening to big band music playing over the radio, conversation only happening when it was necessary. Perhaps it was just because you were both tired; he’d picked you up from your house before sunrise, and judging from the circles under his eyes, he’d gotten as little sleep the previous night as you had. The large thermos of coffee you’d brought had long been empty, and his clutch on the steering wheel was too tight, jaw clenched as he drove slowly towards the sprawling grounds.

You’d forgotten just how large it was. A family estate expanded into a school for hundreds of mutant children, housing their instructors and the mutants who made up Xavier’s little strike team. The long drive was lined with evergreen trees, their branches heavy with snow. In the summer, the grass was a brilliant green, the flower gardens huge and colorful, filled with exotic species of flora. Bucky took a curve in the drive and the school appeared before you. Old, Victorian architecture that hid bleeding edge technology and advanced laboratories, classrooms and exam rooms and the Danger Room. A statue had been erected in the courtyard since you’d left. A statue of Jean Grey. The second bad sign, and one that made your heart sink. The circle drive in front of the main house had been cleared of snow, and as Bucky slowed the car to a stop not far from the entrance, you could make out five figures waiting for you.

“Looks like you have a welcome committee,” Bucky said, glancing over at you as he shut off the ignition. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, letting him pick Alpine off your lap and gently coaxing her into her carrier. You zipped up your coat, that cold feeling of dread only growing heavier in the pit of your stomach as you stepped out of the car. Before you could get your bags, Bucky had retrieved them for you, lips twitching in a smile as you huffed. “Just… let me do the talking, okay?”

“Whatever you say.” Bucky shrugged, easily hauling both your bags, his own, and the cat carrier as he followed you to the entrance.

Kurt Wagner was the first of the group to step forward. In the years since you’d seen him, he’d grown a beard and there were a few more wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. But otherwise, he looked exactly like he had when you were a child. His smile was warm, despite it all, and he reached out to tighten your scarf once you stopped in front of the group.

“Hello, _schatzi,”_ he said, voice as warm as his smile as he rested a hand on your shoulder. “It’s been far too long.”

“Thanks for… letting me come,” you answered, feeling horrifically awkward. You didn’t know what to do, in the face of the life you’d left behind. The family you’d cut yourself off from. “I appreciate it.”

“It really has been far too long, darling.” Emma Frost stepped up next to Kurt. Just like him, she’d barely aged a day. When you’d first run away from the Xavier Institute, it had been Emma you’d run to. She’d taken you in for a short time, given you what you needed to forge a life of your own. Her cold blue eyes lingered on the edge of a fading bruise that peeked over the edge of your scarf before slowly raising to look at Bucky, who’d come to silently stand behind you. “Who is your handsome friend?”

She knew, of course. She’d probably known once he was within a hundred feet of her. For all the power you’d once had, all the talent, you’d never come close to being as powerful a telepath as Emma Frost. Only Jean Grey had rivaled her… but Jean’s absence from the group spoke volumes. Logan, Scott Summers, and Dr. Hank McCoy all stood with Emma and Kurt, all of them staring down Bucky with open suspicion.

“This is my friend,” you said, glancing back at Bucky. “James. Uh, Bu— _James,_ this is Emma Frost, Scott Summers, Logan Howlett, Dr. Hank McCoy, and Kurt Wagner.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, casually obliterating any hopes you’d had of keeping his identity a secret. “But everyone calls me Bucky.”

“So this is the friend you mentioned you were bringing.” Kurt’s smile was stiff. But, god bless him, he was trying to fend off the sudden tension in the air.

“Andromeda.” Scott was the one who spoke this time, voice stiff with anger. You tensed, suddenly feeling like you were fifteen all over again, being caught sneaking off the grounds with a boy. “You know who he is.”

“Uh,” you said.

Brilliant. You prayed for the snow-covered ground to split open and swallow you whole. This whole thing had been a mistake. Was it too late to turn around and leave?

“Unless I’m mistaken, you brought HYDRA’s pet assassin with you.” Logan’s anger was more palpable, his meaty arms folded tightly over his chest and expression openly hostile.

“With all due respect, sir,” Bucky said, adjusting his grip on one of your bags and flashing a charming smile, “Andy’s my friend, and this place is one that’s difficult for her. I wasn’t going to let her just walk into an emotionally charged situation without a friend at her side.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” you mumbled, scratching at your cast nervously. “He was going to come no matter what.”

“And,” he added, “I come with an offer. Anything and everything I know about HYDRA is yours, if you want it. A peace offering. But if you don’t want me here, I understand. I’ll turn around and stay in a hotel nearby until Andy’s ready to go home.”

Logan let out a low growl, anger only growing. But Scott let out a soft sigh, staring Bucky down before he glanced over at Emma. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod. A small gesture ensuring that Bucky was telling the truth. Secrets, after all, were near impossible to keep around any telepath. Kurt and Hank were both quiet, both watched Scott. When he had started to call the shots, taken the lead, you weren’t sure. But it made that feeling of dread grow even further.

“I don’t appreciate this little stunt,” Scott told you, his dark sunglasses doing nothing to hide the intense disapproval of his gaze. “But he can stay, so long as he agrees to let us extract information about HYDRA and their movements from him and stays under surveillance.”

“Promise I’ll behave,” Bucky said.

“We should get you kids and your cat out of the cold,” Hank said, finally speaking up. He adjusted his glasses on his big, furry face, his smile affectionate as he stepped forward. “Between taking a look at your symptoms and questioning your friend, we have quite a bit of work cut out for us.”

Taking the excuse to escape from the twin accusing gazes of Logan and Scott, you motioned for Bucky to follow you and both Hank and Kurt led you inside. Emma stayed outside, but you felt her cold, familiar touch briefly against your mind. It would have been easy to slam up your defenses, to keep her out. But you let her in, relaxed a fraction when you felt her amusement.

 _Welcome back, darling,_ she spoke into your mind. _You always did make the best kind of trouble._

Before you could respond, she slipped back out and the doors closed behind you. Whatever conversation she was going to have with Scott and Logan, you were not going to be a part of. The entrance hall was warm, just as big as you’d remembered it in your childhood. Hank turned towards the guest wing, steps heavy and echoing through the empty halls. Classes were in session, and it would be best for everyone if the students didn’t get a look at you. Kurt walked next to you, yellow eyes looking you over.

“You’ve grown well,” he said, keeping his voice low. Hank could absolutely hear him, and with his enhanced senses, Bucky likely could, too. But the effort was still appreciated. “When did you begin dying your hair blue?”

Oh. Right. You cleared your throat, hand coming up to pull nervously at one of the strands. The color was washing out, turning a lighter blue-silver since you hadn’t refreshed the color in a while, and your roots were growing in faster.

“When I was getting my Master’s,” you replied, gaze trained on Hank’s back. But you could see Kurt’s amusement from the corner of your eye. “Just felt like it. And I think it looks good.”

“Blue always was a good color on you,” Kurt conceded.

“We’ve prepared two rooms,” Hank said, turning and motioning to the two doors at the end of the hall. “One for you and one for Mr. Barnes. Why don’t you settle in, let the cat out? When I’m ready for the first round of tests, I’ll come get you.”

“Uh. Okay.” You stared up at him, tried to hide your rising anxiety. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” With another fond smile, Hank pulled you into a sudden hug, nearly lifting you off your feet. You made a choked sound of surprise into his thick blue fur and he gave you a small squeeze before setting you down, resting a hand on the top of your head. “It’s good to have you back, Andromeda. Even if only for a few days.”

“We missed you. All of us.” Kurt stepped up once Hank had stepped back, ruffling your hair and giving your cheek a gentle pat. “Welcome home.”

The two men, your uncles who you had once loved deeply, who had played with you and comforted you and protected you, gave Bucky small nods before leaving, Hank lumbering back down the hall and Kurt disappearing in a puff of blue smoke. You took a deep breath, realized that you’d barely been breathing the whole time they’d been around. When you looked up at Bucky, he was watching you closely, brow furrowed.

“You’re taking all of this well,” you told him, reaching out to take your computer bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “All things considered.”

“I’ve met Norse gods and a talking raccoon,” he said with a wry smile. “A couple of guys with blue fur isn’t _that_ weird, comparatively.”

You stared at him for a moment before you let out a startled laugh, pressing your hand over your mouth. It was absurd, the whole situation. And, somehow, Bucky was handling the whole thing better than you were. In a strange, hostile environment, with people who could kill him with their minds or set him on fire, he was totally relaxed. Or, at least, he was a good enough actor to seem like none of it bothered him. Unstable and emotional as you were, you didn’t dare reach out to read his thoughts. For the moment, at least, they would have to remain a mystery.

“I’m… glad you bullied me into letting you come with me, Bucky.” It wasn’t easy to admit. Some part of you was still convinced that it was a mistake. You had some idea of how they were going to get intel from him, and hoped that you were able to talk them into a… _kinder_ approach. One that wouldn’t mirror what he’d gone through for so many decades at the hands of HYDRA. “Thanks.”

“After everything you’ve done for me? Least I could do.” Bucky shrugged off your gratitude. But there was a pleased glint to his eye, a flush to his ears. He nodded to one of the doors. “You take that room, I’ll take the one across the hall?”

A long, frustrated mewl from the carrier interrupted whatever answer you were going to give. With a long sigh, he set down the carrier, adjusted his grip on all the bags to open it. Alpine darted out, ears pressed back against her skull, long fur puffed up in displeasure. You watched her sniff at one of the doors, slink back towards Bucky, and look up at him with an anger so raw that it almost made you laugh again. Instead, the cat climbed him, curled around his shoulders and buried her face in his shoulder.

“Here, give me my stuff.” You held out your good hand. “You get Alpine settled in your room. Get your thoughts in order or whatever. Maybe take a nap. You don’t look like you slept last night.”

The guilt in his gaze only confirmed it. Careful not to disturb the cranky cat curled around his shoulders, he handed you your other bag. For the briefest of moments, his fingers brushed against your own, his skin warm. The touch felt like a shock, made you nearly drop the bag. But you recovered quickly, cleared your throat and took a step back.

“I don’t know how long Hank will keep me for his preliminary tests. But—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Bucky shrugged as best he could. “I’ll be fine. A few introductions would be nice, but I doubt they’ll bother me too much.”

You doubted that. Oh, you _very much_ doubted that. But you weren’t going to say so. You weren’t going to plant that seed of doubt and fear into his head. Instead, you sighed and backed towards the guest room he’d nodded to. He did the same, moving in the opposite direction and keeping you within his line of sight. It felt weird. Not just to be back in your childhood home after many years of deliberately keeping your distance, but to be back with something dangerous in your head and an even more dangerous friend at your side. You’d snuck off to the guest wing many times as a kid, but there was still a dull ache in your heart at being so far away from the room you’d had before. Some other kid had undoubtedly moved into it. Maybe moved out of it, had another kid take their place. A rotation of lost, lonely little souls seeking salvation, a place to belong. Before you could turn away, head back into your room, Bucky spoke up.

“Oh, by the way. I watched Scanners.”

“Really?” you asked, leaning against the open doorway. “What did you think?”

“I can see why you like it. That first big kill was… impressive.” Bucky leaned against the door on the opposite end of the hall, head tipped to the side as he watched you. “But mostly, I felt bad for them. Vale and Revok both.”

“Oh?” You quirked an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Neither of them had a choice. Revok was being used as a weapon, was going to be taken advantage of by a PMC. Vale was just a victim of fate, homeless and scared and unstable. Taken advantage of, too.” He reached up, fingers stroking Alpine’s fur. “Both of them were turned into what they were before they ever had a say in it.”

“That’s a… surprisingly nuanced take,” you said, letting out a soft laugh. “For a movie with exploding heads and over the top body horror.”

“I’ve got layers,” he said with a grin. “Like an onion.”

“You’ve never seen Scanners, but you’ve seen _Shrek?”_ you demanded, voice going up an octave as you tried to absorb this information.

“Sam,” he said.

It was, you had to admit, all the explanation you really needed.

“Keep going through that list I gave you.” You sighed, taking a step back into the room. “Maybe one day you’ll actually be cultured.”

Just before you closed the door, you could hear the faint sound of Bucky’s laughter. The small comfort it offered was something you clung desperately to, knowing you’d need all the comfort you could get with everything you would face in the days to come.

\---

“He’s fond of you.”

Sitting on the cold metal of the exam table, you looked up at Emma Frost. Auntie Emma, you’d once called her, in days that felt like they’d been a lifetime ago. Hank had come to get you late in the afternoon, after classes had let out and giving you enough time for a nap. Not that it had helped. Despite the few hours of sleep you’d been able to get, you still felt frayed, unstable, ready to crack and shatter at any moment. You’d changed into an old jumpsuit, knew that at any moment Hank would turn to you with some sort of device to attach to your head, some gadget he’d thrown together that would work perfectly and which would likely never be used again. Shifting uncomfortably, you scratched at your cast again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said.

“Barnes, your friend.” Emma leaned against the desk across from you, her smile sharp and knowing. “It radiates off of him.”

“Because he’s my _friend._ ” You leaned a bit too heavily into the word. After all, you knew that she could feel your thoughts, your emotions. She likely knew you better than you knew yourself. “… I wouldn’t have brought someone dangerous here.”

“I know that.” She sighed, arms folded. “A lot has happened since you ran away, Andromeda. Things are different now.”

“I figured.” Although it had been a decade since you’d lived there, the Institute seemed different. There was a tension in the air that hadn’t been present when you were a child. Logan had always been angry and Scott had always been uptight, but it was worse now. You took another deep breath, kicking your bare feet. “…When did they die?”

You did not need to elaborate. Both of you knew who you were talking about.

“Jean died only a couple of years after you left. Charles died a year ago.” Emma watched you for a moment, gauged your reaction. “Kurt wanted to tell you, but… the rest of us thought it would be best to leave you to the life you had.”

A small part of you wanted to be angry. Angry that your aunt and your grandfather had passed away and no one had bothered to tell you, left you to think they were still alive while others were able to mourn their deaths, move on. But a larger part of you knew that you would not have returned anyways. A year ago, in the depths of your own despair, unmedicated and unstable, you would have seen it as nothing but a trap. A lure to bring you back into the life you had escaped. But now…

Now, you were desperate. You’d thought that it would be Jean’s fever-hot touch in your mind or the quiet presence of Xavier as he sifted through your brain, your thoughts. For a moment, you let yourself mourn. Mourn losses you hadn’t felt, deaths you couldn’t prevent. The last of your family, blood-related and otherwise. How would they have reacted, seeing you now? What would they have said, in response to your worries, your concerns?

It didn’t matter anymore. You would never know. And you would have to make peace with that.

Lumbering footsteps came down the hall and you glanced up just as Hank came back into the lab. Just as you suspected, he had some handmade contraption in his hands. Just as gentle as he had been before, he approached you, brandishing the device. It looked like a crown of wires and electrodes, well built but still rough around the edges. After a moment of hesitation, you took it, turned it over in your hands. Although you had always been better with programming, you could appreciate the engineering, the handiwork, the careful craft of his large hands creating such delicate wiring.

“This will monitor your brain activity and look for any abnormalities,” Hank explained, carefully taking the device from you. “Emma will put your brain into different stages and we will see how it reacts. It’s been a long time since we’ve done a brain scan on you, but—”

“It should be the same,” you interrupted. “Mostly. I think. I just… I need to know if I’m sick. Or if it’s more.”

Hank and Emma shared a look, the large, furry scientist letting out a soft sigh. Turning back to you, he carefully placed the device on your head. It fit securely, didn’t jostle or move as you slowly laid back on the examination table and folded your hands over your stomach. Staring up at the ceiling, you could hear Hank move towards the bank of computer monitors, the faint sound of keys clicking as he pulled up whatever program he’d put together. You wanted to ask him about it, wanted to see the code in a futile attempt to feel some control over the situation. But you remained quiet instead, turned your head slightly as you heard the click of Emma’s heels as she came to stand beside you. With a dour smile, she sat on a chair behind your head, her hands coming to rest gently on either side of your face.

“Relax,” she told you, pale hair framing her face as she bent her head towards yours. “My reach will go deep, Andromeda. Don’t fight against it. If there is more to this than your sickness, it’s buried deep enough that none of us sensed it before.”

You did not need to ask her how deep she was going to go; you already knew. Nothing would be secret from her, every thought and memory and emotion there on display. In any other situation, you would have refused. Privacy was one of the few things you’d managed to keep, through hard work and a healthy amount of paranoia. But you were desperate. You were scared. And, deep down, you trusted Emma Frost. While she wasn’t exactly a paragon of virtue, was more likely to make decisions in darker shades of grey, she had been there when you needed her. She knew and understood your problems with Xavier and his ideals, even if she came back to them more often than not. Any private, personal things that did not stand as a threat against you or the people around you wouldn’t be shared. You knew that. But it was still hard to set aside your nerves, open up your mind to her cold touch. She pressed her forehead against your own and you closed your eyes, a wave of calm rushing through you, loosening your tense muscles and sending you rushing towards a deep, deep sleep.

“Dream, darling,” Emma said, her voice distant. “When you wake, we’ll figure this out. Together.”

And, just like that, the darkness took you.

\---

_Resting beneath a willow tree, you peered up through the dripping branches and foliage at the stars above you. They shone dream-bright, clearer than they had ever been in real life. Not once in your childhood had they appeared so close, so bright, shining cold light down on you. You’d come to this hill so many times, with so many different people. With Kurt when you were a child, naming constellations and sneaking ice cream that you weren’t supposed to have. With the boys and girls you’d been interested in, exchanging nervous kisses, exploring bodies, clammy palms and flushed skin. You’d fallen in love for the first time under this tree, had your heart broken there, too. Experienced your first kiss, lost your virginity there, run to cry under its sheltering branches as the sickness set in._

_In the dream, you were bundled in a soft, warm blanket. Your hair was down, swayed in a light breeze. Not too cold, not too warm. The perfect level of comfort, your head resting comfortably against the trunk of the tree. Bare toes curling into the thick grass, you idly identified the constellations that shone above you. Andromeda shone the brightest, your namesake making your heart ache as you stared up at her._

_Years ago, Emma had warned you not to fall to the same fate as your namesake. You’d taken it to heart, done your best not to be sacrificed for the sake of another’s pride, refused to let your fate be dictated by the men in your life. Until you’d failed. Until the wrong man at the right time had put you on a tight leash, had whispered just the right poison to make you sicker, to keep you under his thumb. Over a year later, you still hated thinking of it. Hated how weak you had been, hated how easily you’d bent under his will, hated thinking of yourself as what you had been. A victim. You’d tried to hard to keep yourself from becoming one, and yet…_

_In your darker moments, you wished that you’d killed him. That you hadn’t let him escape from the house. That you’d brought it down on him, that shattering glass had torn through him, that you’d gotten to watch him bleed out while the flames grew around you. And in your darkest moments? In your darkest moments, you wished you’d died then. It would have been easier. You wouldn’t have had to go through a police investigation, wouldn’t have spent weeks in the hospital, gone through surgeries, dealt with chronic pain that would likely never go away. You wouldn’t have had to sit in a therapist’s office and come to terms with the fact that you’d been abused. You wouldn’t have struggled with the side effects of the new medications you took, filed insurance claims, moved to a new city and started a new job and been forced out of your carefully crafted isolation._

_Would the world be a better place if you’d died that night? You still weren’t certain. You thought about it more frequently than you’d ever admitted to anyone. At some level, you knew it was just because you were depressive. Even with your medication, you had to consciously catch yourself when your thoughts drifted in a dark direction. But you still wondered. On one hand, there would have been less trouble in the aftermath of the fire. There would be one less troubled mind with too much power in the world. The constant looming threat of you becoming like your father would have disappeared. But on the other hand, you wouldn’t have been there to help Bucky. You wouldn’t have sorted through his scarred, battered mind and placed in counter-programming. You wouldn’t have been there to save him. It was a small thing, and there was always a chance that some other telepath would have been placed in his path instead, would have done better than you had._

_But it brought you comfort. Although you did not want to be some paragon of virtue, wanted to keep under the radar and just live your life, it had been nice to know that you had helped, in some way. Although allowing him to come here with you might end in disaster, you couldn’t bring yourself to really, truly feel regret. You’d become attached to him, and he’d become attached to you. A friend, although there was some small part of you that wanted more._

_You didn’t want to unpack that. You didn’t want to acknowledge that you were attracted to him. Not just because he was tall, and strong, and handsome. But because there was a softness beneath the gruff interior. Because even when you’d showed him dark parts of yourself, he’d accepted them. Because James Buchanan Barnes was a good man with a good heart, and goodness like his was so rare. You didn’t know when it had happened, when you’d gone from being wary of him, distrustful of him, to feeling a fondness that scared you. But you would keep it hidden as best you could._

_Bucky Barnes deserved better than you. Your own selfish feelings would have to be carefully packed away, kept a secret, until he was finally free from the tight fist of HYDRA._

_“You think of him a lot. Your Soldier.”_

_Slowly, you turned at the familiar voice. Your father looked just like he had in your last memory of him. Tired, exhausted, beaten down by life and twisted by ideals that brought nothing but harm to the people around him. He removed his sunglasses, tucked them in the front of his shirt as he sat down next to you. His too-blue eyes reflected the light of the stars, wild dark hair sticking at strange angles. Had he always been so tall, or had he only seemed so large because you had been so small?_

_“He’s not mine,” you told him, turning your gaze back to the stars. “He’s not anybody’s.”_

_“If you asked him, I think he would say otherwise.”_

_“Why are you here?” you demanded, curling in on yourself, knees pressed to your chest and hands clutching your blanket. “I haven’t dreamed about you in years.”_

_David Haller let out a long sigh, bracing his elbows on his knees and turning to look at you properly. It hurt, seeing him. It always did. He’d never been much of a father to you, had been absent more often than not while he was still alive. But he was still your father, had still had a part of brining you into the world. And deep in your heart, there was still the child in you that loved him, despite it all._

_“You really haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” he asked. “So clever, but so dense at the same time.”_

_You bristled, offended. How dare this dream version of your father insult you? It seemed on brand for your memory of him, brash and insensitive._

_“Get out of my dream,” you said, storm clouds rolling in and blocking out the stars. Darkness fell and his eyes seemed to glow as he watched you. Fascinated, in a way that only made you angrier. “You’re not welcome here. You’ll never be welcome here.”_

_“I can’t leave.” He tipped his head to the side, the smile he gave you humorless._

_Thunder crashed around you, lightning flashing across the sky in sync with the swell of your rage. What did he_ mean _he couldn’t leave? If he wouldn’t leave, then you would make him. This was your head. Even if Emma was in it right now, was keeping you in your own dreamspace while she worked, that didn’t mean you couldn’t force out an unwelcome presence. You stood, blanket falling from your shoulders. He stood as well, towering over you. But you did not let this shadow of him intimidate you. Gathering all of your strength, you placed your hands on his chest and_ pushed. _As hard as you could, putting all you could in it, rejecting his presence._

_But he did not budge. Instead, pain lanced through you. Sharp, making your vision and the space around you go blood red, a scream ripping itself from your chest. Not even the flames searing the skin of your back, the debris crushing your leg, had hurt this bad. It was all-consuming, grew in intensity when you kept pushing, kept trying to force him out. Your strength gave out and you collapsed, the rolling grass on the hill replaced with an ice-cold mud. Panting, trying to catch your breath, you blinked away the stars in your vision, the darkness that had crept in around the edges. The pain faded slowly, remained a dull pulse in your temples as your hands sank into the mud, a slow rain beginning to fall. Your head was too heavy to lift, but you could feel your father’s gaze on you, heavy and unwelcome._

_“You’re only hurting yourself, Andromeda.” The pity in his voice only made you angrier, the light drizzle turning into a downpour. Your clothes clung to you, heavy and cold, making you shiver. “You accepted me before. Accept me again.”_

_“No.”_

_You refused. He wasn’t welcome here. This was your head. This was your safe space. You’d spent so much of your life trying to crawl out from under his shadow but here he was, dark and overwhelming, towering over you as you sank further into the mud, down to the wrists, consuming you. Lightning struck next to him, barely missing him, the effort from your mind trying to obliterate him sending another cutting bolt of pain through your head, your body, all the way down to your fingertips. You cried out again, arms giving out, collapsing into the mud. You sank faster, faster, managed to lift your head enough to look up at him. The Shadow loomed over you, glowing eyes the same blue as your fathers, spindly dark fingers combing through your hair._

_“You got that stubborn streak from your mother,” he said, voice soft, crystal clear despite the storm overwhelming your dream. “But you’ll break, eventually. You’ll see reason. You’ll give in. You’ll accept me again.”_

_The mud slipped up over your face, leaked through your lips, choked you. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase, reached for him, clawed for something, anything that would let you escape the cold dark that was swallowing you. You couldn’t go. Not like this. Not helplessly, unable to fight back, crippled by pain and exhaustion. Not with Emma, your Auntie Emma, still so deep in your psyche. But you could not fight back against it. It was too strong, lightning flashing blue above you, cutting through the dark for the briefest moment, letting you see the sorrow on your father’s face. You reached for him, reached for the light._

_The dream shattered into a million pieces, and a warm hand closed around your own, pulling you back towards the light._

\---

Reality came crashing back down on you, rushing in too fast, overwhelming you. It was a sensory overload, made the pain in your head throb harder, made you hiss in pain. Large arms cradled you to a furry chest, a cold hand pressed against your forehead, which was slick with sweat. You were too cold and too hot all at once, trembling in the warm embrace, each breath a desperate gasp, your chest feeling tight. Fingers clutched at the jumpsuit you wore, pulled at the latex as your dizzy vision cleared and you stared up at the concerned faces of Hank McCoy and Emma Frost.

“She’s awake,” Emma said, pushing your bangs back from your forehead, leaning closer, her soft touch such a welcome comfort that you almost sobbed. “Breathe, Andromeda. Breathe.”

Forcing yourself to focus past the pain, the fear, the rush of too many sensations all at once, alarms blaring in the lab, you took a deep breath. Held it, let it out, repeated the process. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you came back from the precipice of panic, the violent shaking of your body turning into a gentle tremble. Hank continued to cradle you in his arms, your body feeling so small and fragile in his embrace, and you turned to bury your face in his fur. Emma stroked your hair instead, the silent concern radiating from both of them only making you feel that much worse.

“What happened?” you slurred, voice muffled, barely audible.

“Emma reached the depths of your subconscious, found something buried there, and you had a seizure,” Hank explained. “You’ve never shown signs of epilepsy before. We’ll make sure you’re stable, but—”

“You were right to come to us.” Emma’s voice was cold, a stark contrast to the gentle sweep of her fingers through your sweat-dampened hair. “This Shadow that you told Kurt about was not just a delusion.”

Gathering enough strength to turn your head back towards her, you opened your eyes, ignored the ache in them as you met her gaze. Her face was drawn with concern, a pinch to her brow as her hand came to rest on your clammy cheek.

“What do you mean?” you asked, although there was some small part of you that knew. That had always known.

“There is another consciousness buried deep in your mind, Andromeda.” Emma glanced up at Hank, then back down at you. “A psychic parasite. Whatever caused the scars in your mind, the blocks in your powers, has allowed it to grow. When you recognized it, when I touched it, you tried to push it out. It caused your seizure. Its roots have spread far and dug deep.”

“You… you know what it is,” you whispered. “You know _who_ it is.”

“Yes.” Emma sighed. “And I believe you do, too.”

The Shadow. The thing that had lurked in the back of your mind, at the corner of your eye, present but faded. Until the fire. Until the psionic backlash. Until you’d nearly destroyed yourself. It was then that it had slowly crept forward, sunk its claws deep in your mind. It had taken over when you were close to death. It had your father’s voice. Had appeared in your dreams while Emma searched for it.

The Shadow was your father. David Haller had lived for all those years, slowly gathering strength as you grew. Feeding off your sickness, your fear, your anger. For most of your life, you had feared being like your father, losing yourself in the darkest parts of your mind.

Now, you feared that you would become him. That he would take over. And the cold fear you sensed in the other two mutants only confirmed that the situation was as bad as it seemed.

“You don’t know how to remove him, do you?”

“No.” It was Hank who answered this time, standing up and gently placing you back on the exam table, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “I’m… afraid we don’t.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Emma stepped over to Hank, placing a hand on his arm. They exchanged another concerned look before she turned back to you. “We always do. But I think it would be best for you to stay here… Let us monitor you.”

Deep down, you knew that if you chose to leave, they would let you go. You could go back to your regular life, pretend that everything was fine, that there wasn’t a psychic parasite slowly taking over your mind. And once it did, they would find you. Although, you thought, not before damage was done. Ignoring a wave of nausea, you sat up, let your legs dangle from the side of the table. You didn’t like feeling so small, so helpless, so _powerless._

“I’ll stay,” you said, hands curling into fists in your lap.

How much time did you have left? Had your quiet acknowledgement of his presence in your psyche made the Shadow bolder? How long would it be before he got tired of your refusal to give in and took control by force?

“Take a moment, gather your strength.” Emma rested a hand on your leg, tried to radiate comfort. But it fell flat, rang hollow in the wake of your revelation. “Hank?”

“We’ll put you on epilepsy medication, at least for the moment. Do you have a list of your other prescriptions? The last thing we need is for bad drug mixing to trigger another episode.” Hank sat down on the chair in front of you, making notes on his tablet.

You listed them off, feeling distant from your own body. Hank continued to explain the medications he was going to give you, potential side effects, things you needed to report to him immediately. But you weren’t paying attention to him. You thought of Bucky, likely sleeping in his guest room, blissfully unaware of the danger you had dragged him into. How were you going to tell him about this?

_Oh, yeah, by the way, my father implanted one of his personalities into me as a psychic parasite, it’s slowly growing more powerful, and could take over at any minute! Have you met my uncle Hank? He’s probably going to be the one who has to put me down when it happens, if I don’t kill myself first. Or maybe it’ll be my uncle Logan, and you’ll watch me bleed to death. Or uncle Scott, he could cut my head clean off my neck without breaking a sweat. But not uncle Kurt. He’ll let me kill him before he’d ever harm me. How was lunch?_

“Andromeda.” You snapped out of your daze, looked up at Hank. He smiled, reached out to take your hand in his. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

You weren’t going to be fine. And you couldn’t make any of them be the ones to cut you down. You smiled, gave his hand a small squeeze back.

“I know,” you lied.

As you passively let him take your temperature, take a blood sample, press medication into your hands, you continued to pretend. Pretend that you had hope, that they could find some way to fix what was happening to you.

Because, deep down, you knew there was only one way this would all end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: it might take me a while to write the next chapter, please be patient!  
> me, literally a few hours later: so that was a fucking lie
> 
> my Hyperfocus Brain kicked in and i pounded out almost 7k words holy shit. but now the plot proper has finally kicked in! please be advised that loss of self, mind control, and mind fuckery are going to be... pretty present in the coming chapters. if any of that is something you're not into, i promise i won't be offended if you tap out. i was kind of disappointed when they chickened out of making david haller a full and proper villain in the last season of legion, so. here we are. (and yes, we will figure out who andy's mom is. heheheheheh)
> 
> thank you as always for reading. love y'all. be kind to yourselves. next chapter will have MUCH more bucky, i promise.


	11. Castle of Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _bring me home in a blinding dream  
>  through the secrets that i have seen  
> wash the sorrow from off my skin  
> and show me how to be whole again_

_It was ridiculous, Bucky thought sluggishly, how frequently he was having these dreams. This was the fourth one in as many nights. He’d woken up feeling ashamed each time, fingers clutching his pillow and sleep clothes feeling too tight. It was one thing to have these dreams in the safehouse he’d moved into. But it was another to have one in the house she’d been raised in. Not that he had any control over it. Increasingly, it felt like when it came to Andromeda Haller, there was no such thing as control. The dreams didn’t always start out the same, but they always came to the same conclusion._

_With no say over the places his dreams went to, he could only pray that someone woke him up before any of the occupants of the house who were telepathic picked up on where his mind was going._

_This one was one he’d had before. The place he was in was familiar in that strange, distant way so many things were. A place that he’d known, once. Taken away from him, one way or another. But the details were fuzzy around the edges. It was dark, and cold, and his breath fogged before him. There was a hot springs in front of him, mist and fog and steam curling around him in strange patterns. Vaguely, he thought he could make out the shapes of tall, bare trees. But that wasn’t the focus of his attention._

_No, he couldn’t look away from the bare back of the woman in the hot springs. Dark blue hair floated on the surface of the water, steam curling off her skin. In reality, he knew that she had scars on her back, although he had never seen them. But in the dream, her olive skin was smooth, the curve of her spine just visible. She rose slightly from the water, visible to the waist, wet hair clinging to her skin. His eyes traced the slow path of a drop of water down her ribs, breath caught in his own chest. Her hands came up slowly, rested on her shoulders._

_But then, the dream shifted._

_Something dark and thick dripped from her fingers, coated her hands up to the wrist. It moved in slow trails down the skin of her back, spread on the surface of the water around her. The cold began to set in as Bucky watched, frozen in place. Her hands moved to rest on her shoulder blades, fingertips digging into the soft skin, the pool of darkness growing larger around her with each passing moment. It was only when he heard a hitched breath from her, saw her figure falter, that Bucky was able to move again. He rushed forward, crossing so much space in an impossibly short amount of time, arms catching her just as she was about to collapse into the water. It came up to his waist, felt uncomfortably hot as her head came to rest on his chest._

_“Andy,” he breathed, voice echoing in the large, empty darkness around them._

_Long, dark eyelashes fluttered against her cheekbones, freckles standing out on her skin as the color slowly drained from it. He could see her collarbones, her shoulders, the rest of her hidden by the dark, dark water slowly rising. When her hand came up to rest on his cheek, it was too cold. He could feel the liquid shadows smear against his skin, breath catching in a different way when her eyes opened._

_Too blue. They were too blue, too bright, not as dark as they should have been._

_“Andy,” he whispered again, desperation in his voice, one hand coming up to brush her hair away from her face. “Andy?”_

_She simply stared up at him for a long moment, gaze distant. Not present, looking past him. Then she blinked and clarity returned to her eyes. Her fingers curled around his wrist, so small, so fragile._

_“No,” she whispered. Her voice wasn’t right, sent a chill crawling down his spine. “We are many. We are Legion.”_

Bucky woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He was in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, in a strange place. But Alpine was there, climbing up onto his lap and purring loudly, the rumbling sound filling the silence in the room. He forced himself to breathe, ran his hands over his face, forced himself to return to reality. At the gentle bump of her head against him, he lowered one hand to stroke Alpine’s fur, metallic fingers moving with slow, careful care. She grounded him, arched into his touch, nipped at his metal fingers and curled her tail around his wrist.

Something was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew, he just _did._ Instinctively, a dark, hard knot in his gut that only served to magnify his unease. Alpine meowed at him, batted at his hand. With a heavy sigh, he turned his attention to his cat, her blue eyes staring up at him in a way that felt questioning. Perhaps he was projecting onto her. But he managed a pained smile, scratching behind her ears and letting out a rasping chuckle as she closed her eyes and leaned into the touch. He knew that he should have been comforted by it. But that unerring sense of _wrong_ still sat heavy in the pit of his stomach.

How long had he slept? How much had he missed? His brain was still trying to catch up, taking in the situation when there was a soft knock on the door. Instinctively, he reached under the pillow for a gun that wasn’t there. Bucky had left most of his weapons (save for a couple of knives, just to be safe) at home. Bringing guns into a safe haven for people with mutations that made them walking weapons hadn’t seemed like the smartest thing to do, especially considering he was treading on thin ice with them already. Although he didn’t speak up, the door still opened and he tensed further when he realized the figure at the door wasn’t Andy.

No friendly faces. At least, not for the moment. The mutant with blue fur and a devilish appearance stood in the doorway, yellow eyes glowing in the dark and sending a chill down Bucky’s spine. Kurt Wagner, that was this man’s name. He’d seen brief glimpses of him in the precious few memories Andy had shared with him, understood that Wagner had raised her, that there was still a lingering familial affection between them. It only made his nerves worse, made his jaw clench so hard that it felt as if it was wired shut as he stared at Wagner, and Wagner stared right back at him.

“Where is Andy?”

The words fell from Bucky’s mouth before he could stop them, made him fall sheepishly silent once more when the other man let out an amused chuckle. Unfolding his arms from his chest, he quietly gestured for Bucky to follow him. There was only a moment of hesitation before Bucky did so, cradling Alpine, who purred softly, in one arm as he quietly followed after the mutant. Although he tried not to stare, tried not to be impolite, he had a hard time not watching the twitching tail Wagner had, the three fingered hands he clasped behind his back. Of course, he had not been lying when he said that he had seen stranger; hell, he’d had a full conversation with a talking raccoon obsessed with guns once.

But he’d never met anyone like Kurt Wagner before, or the other large, furry one, the doctor. Part of Bucky recognized that he’d likely met mutants before Andy, but simply hadn’t realized it. People who existed quietly, hid their natures to keep themselves safe. Some, like her, were lucky. Their mutations were internal, didn’t reflect in their appearance, helped them hide in plain sight. But there were others, he was beginning to realize, who were not so lucky. Who appeared inhuman, even though the only thing different between him and them were a few differences in genetic code. A difference so small it shouldn’t have counted. But, of course, it did.

People always feared the unknown. And what was scarier than the thought of just a few genetic switches being flipped and ending up with slime for skin, or blue fur, or a tail?

Alpine was asleep, curled comfortably in the crook of his prosthetic arm, by the time Wagner stopped in front of a door. Bucky realized dimly, and with no small amount of alarm, that he’d barely registered the halls he walked through. Was there some passive psychic work being done in the mansion, making sure any non-mutants or guests who wandered the great halls couldn’t remember where they’d been? Because he tried to. But the best he could conjure were hardwood floors and the mutant who’d guided him, nothing more. If Wagner noticed his panic, he didn’t say anything. Bucky wasn’t even sure what the man’s mutant powers were, if they extended past his appearance. But he distantly hoped that the man couldn’t read his mind.

The door opened and he stepped into a laboratory. A large one, filled with equipment that seemed decades ahead of what he’d seen anywhere else. It set him further on edge, an instinctive fear rising cold and terrible in his gut. Logically, he knew that none of the equipment would wipe his mind. None of it looked like what HYDRA had used on him. But the fear was still there. The fear that he would sit down, close his eyes, and years of hard work would be undone in the blink of an eye. Losing all of that progress terrified him, all of the memories he’d regained slipping through his hands like grains of sand. He didn’t want to forget his sister all over again, his mother, his childhood with Steve. Wanted to hold onto the friendship he’d regained with his old childhood friend, the friends he’d gained in Sam and Nat. And god, he didn’t want to forget Andy. Not that he would ever admit it. Not that he ever _could_ admit it. It was best to keep a careful, friendly distance. Her life had already been chaotic enough; it would be cruel of him to drag her right back into even greater chaos. 

Andromeda Haller deserved better than a broken, semi-stable man fighting to find his identity in a time he didn’t belong in.

“Don’t look so tense, Sergeant.” Wagner grinned when Bucky back at him, startled out of his thoughts. “None of these machines are for you.”

“Not a sergeant anymore,” he said, looking away and trying to relax despite the fear that continued to travel like his down his spine.

“Just Bucky, then?”

“Just Bucky,” he agreed, hesitating for a brief moment before he sat down in the nearest chair. “… What’s gonna happen here?”

“Straight to the point, then.” Wagner leaned against a table across from him, tail leisurely flicking from one side to the other. “Scott and Logan wanted to question you themselves, but since they would have been… less than gentle, I was able to talk them into an alternative. Emma will be here to look into your mind, get the information you offered to us that way.”

Bucky felt the color drain from his face, prosthetic fingers curling into a fist as he stared up at the mutant in muted horror. Somehow, that option seemed worse than having information tortured out of him, or being hooked up to some machine that would pull the information straight from his brain. It was one thing to have Andy in his mind; her touch felt gentle, careful, familiar now. She warned him each time, made sure to get his comfort and consent before she touched his thoughts, helped bring back memories he’d thought would be lost forever. He didn’t know this Emma past briefly being introduced to her, didn’t know how she’d go about getting what she wanted. Having her dig around in his head… it seemed _wrong._ Invasive. But he couldn’t argue against it. He’d offered up that information to them, and he couldn’t take it back now. Not in good faith, not without betraying the good intentions he’d come to this strange manor with.

“Don’t worry.” Snapping back to reality, he blinked and realized that Wagner’s expression was gentle. Sympathetic. “Emma won’t take anything that you don’t offer. She’s very good at what she does.”

The words didn’t bring him much comfort, but there was no point in arguing it. If this was what would need to happen for him to stay, to be there for Andy for whatever was happening to her, then so be it. He’d gone through worse. _She’d_ gone through worse for him.

“How soon will she be here?” he asked, carefully moving Alpine so that the cat laid in his lap, still sleeping peacefully.

“Only a little fashionably late.”

Bucky turned to see the blond woman from earlier walk in, blue eyes cold and her smile frigid. Emma Frost, that was her name. One of the telepaths, if she would be the one pulling information from him. Her heels clicked on the tile as she approached, expression a careful mask as she held eye contact with him. Reading him, studying him. Even as she pulled out a chair to sit directly in front of him, she did not look away. It made him feel small, made him slump, curl in a bit on himself.

“I apologize for being a bit late, Kurt.” She finally looked away, turned her gaze on the other mutant, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. “I was… reviewing things with Hank.”

“No need to apologize.” Wagner waved it off, although his expression hardened at her words. There was something going on. Something that had happened while he was asleep. That feeling of something being horribly wrong only grew, his fingers combing through Alpine’s fur to try and calm himself down. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” Emma turned back to Bucky, tucking her hair behind her ears and slowly looking him over. “But there’s work to do.”

“Wait.” Bucky’s heart was in his throat, ice in his veins as he sat up straight. “Is Andy—”

“Fine. For the moment. If she wishes to talk to you about it, she will.” The words were sharp, cold, cut straight through him. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Close your eyes, Barnes.”

“But Andy—”

He tried to argue, tried to get more information. All he wanted was to know that she was okay, that something horrible hadn’t happened while he’d slept, that she didn’t need him. But Emma Frost moved faster than he’d expected, her right hand slamming over his eyes. There was a cold rush, a sense of free falling, the world being yanked out from under him. The darkness was overwhelming, crashing over him in a wave.

His last thought was a lingering image of his nightmare before he plunged into a deep, cold unconsciousness and succumbed to Emma Frost’s powers.

\---

_The dance hall was familiar. Something from a previous life, a memory that had once been faded but had been brought back to a certain degree of clarity. The music played softly, the chatter of the people around him distant. A soft buzz, nothing more than background noise. Girls walked by wearing their best dresses, hanging on the arms of soldiers in their dress uniforms, their faces a blur. Bucky stood in place, far too aware of what he was experiencing being a dream. A distraction from what was being pulled from his head, the intel he was unwittingly providing._

_“Relax, soldier.” A disembodied voice, echoing in his head and sending a chill down his spine. “Just enjoy this. I won’t leave any damage behind, promise. Andromeda is too fond of you.”_

_“Frost.” He blinked, trying to look around for her._

_But, of course, the woman wasn’t there. Simply projecting this dream to him, her chuckle rolling through his head and sending a shiver down his spine._

_“Enjoy the dream. I set the stage, but you get to choose the players. I won’t be long. Just relax.”_

_The voice faded, the music swelling and the dream around him finally coming into sharp focus. He inhaled sharply, looked down to find himself in his old uniform. It had always made him feel sharp, back then. Proud of himself, until he’d faced the horrors of war, until he’d been captured and tested on and fallen. Both hands were made of flesh and blood, his fingers flexing easily, even as his dream body felt somewhat… distant. As unreal as his surroundings, his sense of discomfort slowly growing._

_“Hello, Sergeant. I’ve been looking for you.”_

_A familiar voice that was dissonant with his surroundings. Bucky looked up, startled, as a small hand slipped into his own. Andy’s hair fell in dark curls, the scar missing from her face, her lips painted a brilliant red that made his heart skip a beat. Her dress was the same blue as her eyes, deep and dark as the ocean and hugging the curves of her body. A dream version of Andromeda Haller, perfectly tailored and smiling warmly up at him. It sent another chill through him, despite how warm her hand was as she gently pulled him towards the dance floor._

_“Andy, what—”_

_“Don’t question it.” The quirk to her lips was more fitting now, amusement at his expense as he stumbled along behind her. “Dance with me.”_

_He couldn’t say no to her. Not even this dream version of her, slipping too easily through the crowd, guiding his hand to rest on her waist as her fingers linked with his own. Out of instinct, one he didn’t know even still existed, he guided her into a slow dance, the music slowing and fitting all too perfectly._

_“You don’t fit here,” he said. Not an insult, but an observation. Andy stuck out like a sore thumb, even as she swayed easily along to the music with him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “Why you?”_

_“I don’t know, Bucky.” She tipped her head to the side, the light catching in her hair just right, giving it a familiar blue tint for a split second before it was back to a deep, natural black. “You’re the one who thought of me.”_

_“You don’t strike me as the type of girl who dances.”_

_“Maybe I’m not. But right now, I am.” Her dress ballooned around her legs as he spun her, amusement bright in her eyes as he pulled her back towards him. “Maybe I could learn. You used to like taking girls to the dance hall.”_

_“That was a lifetime ago.” His hand felt heavy on her waist, easy dance moves almost clumsy from so many decades of disuse. “You’re different.”_

_“Oh?” Dream Andy pressed closer, heat blossoming in him as the music slowed further, dreamlike and sensuous. His hand slipped to rest on the small of her back, breath catching as her fingers brushed over the back of his neck. “This is the first time you’ve admitted that to yourself, isn’t it?”_

_He hadn’t allowed himself to admit it. Had known that something was changing in the way he looked at her, the way he felt about her. But he’d refused to acknowledge it. Hadn’t wanted to. Even though he’d actively sought her out, even though he’d come to a hostile place for her sake in her time of need. Steve had tried to talk to him about it, Nat had teased him about it, Sam had simply given him a knowing look any time Andy was mentioned. But now, in this dream, his mind’s projection of her in his arms swaying to a slow, romantic song, he had to admit it. Andy was different._

_“You deserve better.” His voice broke at the end, fingers tightening around hers. “You deserve better than the chaos I’d bring into your life. I… I could be forced to go on the run at any moment. Uproot your whole life.”_

_“Doesn’t what I want matter?” Her voice was soft, expression vulnerable in a way he’d never seen before. “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself.”_

_“If I don’t,” he whispered, “who else will?”_

_“Have you considered that you deserve forgiveness?” The music faded away, but even as they stopped, she remained pressed against him, head tipped back to look up at him. So small, so heartbreakingly small despite how larger than life she liked to make herself. Her hand came up to rest on his cheek, eyes searching his expression for… something. “Steve has already forgiven you.”_

_“What I did—”_

_“Is something you don’t need to keep torturing yourself for,” she interrupted. “You were stripped of all agency, Bucky. The fact that you subconsciously forced yourself to remember every life you took, every horrific thing they made you do… Isn’t that punishment enough? You’re penitent. You’re trying to do better. And we’ve all done terrible things. How can you move forward if you continue to punish yourself for the past?”_

_“This is just a dream.” Bucky shook his head, pulled away from her and closed his eyes. “You’re just saying what I want to hear.”_

_“No.” A warm touch to his cheek, one that made him open his eyes again. Everyone else in the dance hall had faded away, leaving them alone with each other. “You know that’s not true. You know that this is what I’d say to you.”_

_“… Is there a piece of you in my head?” he asked._

_“Maybe something more like an echo, from all the time my mind has spent connected to your own. A little imprint.” Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone and he couldn’t help but lean into the touch, craving it, seeking the warmth. “Does it matter? Just let yourself dream. You’ll wake up soon. Allow yourself this one thing.”_

_Slowly, terrified that she would shatter under his touch, he brought his hand up to rest over her own. His fingertips pressed against the soft pulse in her wrist, a gentle rhythm that his own heart seemed to match. He dipped his head so that his forehead pressed against her own, watched as her eyes slowly closed. But he held back. Not in a dream. Not in yet_ another _dream, one that an outside party could see. For the moment, he held back. Simply basked in the warm presence of her in his dream, in ways he knew he couldn’t in reality._

_“Andy,” he whispered. “Whatever is happening to you, whatever’s wrong… I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.”_

_A soft sigh was her answer. Her eyes slowly opened, rooting him to the spot._

_Her eyes weren’t blue. They were brown. A warm, soft brown, a ring of gold around her pupils. There was a knowing smile on her face as she slowly pulled away. Bucky reached for her, tried to pull her back, make sense of what he was seeing, but she faded away. Darkness fell, ripping him away from the dream._

\---

Bucky jolted in his chair, rushing back to reality just as he fell backwards, landing hard on the floor and the breath knocked from his chest. He’d been lucky enough to break the fall on his prosthetic shoulder, avoid cracking his head open on the floor. Pain still radiated down his arm, made him wince as Alpine let out a startled yowl and darted under a table somewhere, hissing. A three fingered hand entered his field of vision and he looked up at Kurt Wagner, the mutant’s expression unreadable. With a grunt, he took the hand, accepted the help up. Emma Frost had risen from her own chair, slipped on a pair of gloves and looked unshaken despite the way the world seemed to tilt under Bucky’s feet. His head didn’t ache, his mind still seemed to be intact, but the sudden rush back to realty left him feeling unstable, unsteady. Wagner pulled back once he was standing, moving to retrieve Bucky’s startled cat and handing Alpine back over to him. She curled around his shoulders, tail fluffed in residual fear, claws digging into his shirt.

“You really are quite the repository of information on HYDRA.” Frost gave him a knowing look, unshaken as she clasped her hands behind her back. “Thank you, Mr. Barnes. I think we have enough for now.”

He looked between Wagner and Frost, hesitating for a moment. Her lips twitched up into a smirk and she nodded to the door.

“That means you can go,” she said. “We have a lot to discuss, and I think Andromeda could use a friend right about now.”

“Is she—”

“In the kitchen,” Wagner interrupted, placing a hand on Bucky’s back and guiding him to the door. “Head down the hall. Take your first right, then the third left, then another left. You can’t miss it. And I suspect if you think her name loud enough, she’ll help guide you there.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” The man’s smile was bitter as he took a step back, gesturing again for Bucky to go.

He didn’t need to be told a second time. Stroking Alpine, trying to calm her down, he took slow careful steps down the hall. Felt more on edge than usual, every small noise making him jumpy as he followed Wagner’s instructions. No one came out while he walked, every door along the way closed, the halls eerily quiet. Before he knew it, he stopped before open double doors, muffled conversation echoing from inside. He hesitated, not wanting to eavesdrop but also afraid of interrupting. Alpine had begun to calm down, purred softly and let him readjust her so she was tucked into the front of his hoodie.

“… sayin’ that there’s better ways to go about this,” a gruff voice said, vaguely familiar. The small, muscular one, Bucky thought. Logan. “Stick around a while. Gotta be somethin’ we can do.”

“Don’t think so.” Andy, her voice low, the soft clink of glasses. “Safer for everyone if I’m not here.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Actually, pretty sure I do.”

Bucky took a sharp breath, hesitating for only a moment longer before he stepped into the kitchen. It was obscenely large, all ornate cabinets and marble countertops, warm lighting and expensive embellishments. Logan’s head whipped around, eyes narrowed, a growl in the back of his throat as Bucky froze a few feet away from them. The smaller man and Andy were both sitting at a bar in the kitchen, a bottle of scotch between them, the air filled with a cold tension just waiting to snap. But his eyes quickly moved away from Logan, settling on Andy. Her back was still to him, hair pulled up in a ponytail, exposing the slope of her neck, the still fading bruises in the shape of thick fingers.

“Hey Bucky,” she said, still not turning around. He watched her knock back her drink, set down the glass heavier than she needed to. “Head doing okay?”

“Uh.” His gaze flicked back to Logan, the mutant standing up, glaring at him with palpable killing intent. “Yeah. Fine. Are… you okay?”

“Loaded question, bub.” Logan stepped closer, eyes still narrowed, voice a low growl. Sized him up, sleeves rolled up his thick arms. “… Want me to leave?”

“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself, Logan.” Andy finally turned, dark circles under her eyes, fingers clutching her empty glass. “Give me some privacy.”

The man lingered for a moment, glaring up at Bucky, before letting out a snort. Bucky hadn’t noticed how tense he’d gone, not until the mutant stepped around him and left the kitchen. Letting out the breath he’d been holding, he ran a hand over his face, waited until Logan’s heavy steps had faded into the distance before he glanced back at Andy. She’d turned away from him, picked up the bottle of scotch to pour herself another drink. Setting the bottle down, she heaved a long sigh.

“Well?” she said, sharp edge to her voice. “Are you gonna sit and have a drink with me, or just stand there?”

“Didn’t know there was an invitation.” He tried to keep his voice light as he sat on the barstool next to her, let Alpine jump up onto the bar and settle down. Picking up the bottle, he inspected the label, let out a low whistle. “Macallan 25? This stuff goes for almost three grand nowadays.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, there’s a lot of money in this place.” Andy snorted, no humor in the sound, as she downed the scotch. “Spare change.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Bucky grabbed one of the clean glasses on the other side of the bar, pouring himself a generous amount of the scotch and settling down, watching her from the corner of his eye. “Are you okay?”

“No.” A brutal truth, delivered with all the grace of a brick to the back of the head. She stared down at her empty glass, expression unreadable. Bucky noticed the cast she’d had was replaced with a different brace, a strange observation as he reeled from the force of the single word. “I’m not.”

Without another word, he picked up the bottle and poured her another drink. Set it down, curled the fingers of his prosthetic hand around his glass and gave her the space she needed to talk. Prodding, he knew, would only make her withdraw further. If she was going to tell him anything, it would be on her own terms. Silence stretched between them, the only sound the gentle rumble of Alpine’s purr. Andy took a deep breath, bracing herself.

“There’s something…” She paused, shaking her head. “There’s _someone_ in my head.”

Bucky frowned, taking a moment to sip at the scotch, savoring the pleasant burn down his throat and setting the glass back down.

“Like… a telepath?” he asked.

“Like a parasite.” Her laugh was bitter, expression dark as her fingers clutched the glass tighter. “Burrowin’ into my head over the years. Making himself at home. Putting down roots, taking over.”

Her British part of her accent was stronger when she was tipsy, he realized distantly. A strange thing to notice, in the wake of this revelation. A coping mechanism, maybe, to protect his mind from completely shutting down at the thought of someone rooting themselves in her head like a parasite. Like a rot, spreading with each day that passed.

“There’s a way to get it out, though, right?” Bucky watched her closely, the distance in her gaze, the way she threw back the whole glass. He wanted to point out that the scotch was made for sipping, but thought it best to keep his mouth shut on that for the moment. “There’s telepaths here, sci-fi equipment. Surely they know what to do.”

“What color are my eyes?” she asked him abruptly, looking up at him. Words ever so slightly slurred, the alcohol starting to have an effect. She leaned closer, his heart giving a strange leap.

“I… what?” he asked, taken aback.

“My eyes. What color are they?”

“Uh.” This seemed like a trick question. He blinked, meeting her gaze and taking a slow sip. “Dark blue.”

“See, that’s what I thought, too.” Laughing bitterly, she turned back away from him, scratching at the brace. “I found an old picture of me from before my dad died. My eyes were brown.”

Bucky felt like a bucket of ice water had been tipped over his head, frozen in place. The dream, the way her eyes had changed at the end. Had that been Emma Frost showing him? Giving him a hint before Andy dropped the bomb? He threw back the rest of his scotch. Fuck sipping it. Even if he couldn’t get drunk anymore, he needed the buzz.

“Y’know, my dad had a psychic parasite. Not long before he knocked up my mom.” Andy picked up the bottle of scotch, poured another drink, tone conversational. “Lived in his head from when he was a baby. Slowly took over. Made him even more unstable than he’d been before. Know how they got it out?”

Bucky waited, knew she was going to tell him anyways.

“It went into someone else’s head. Nearly killed my dad in the process. Probably would have been better if it had.” She laughed again, the sound even colder than it had been before, trailing off at the end. Her head bowed, shoulders slumped, voice thick when she spoke again. “Lot of damage would’ve been avoided if he’d died that day.”

“But then we wouldn’t have you.” Bucky swallowed a lump in his throat, watched with a sinking heart as the first tears rolled down her cheeks. “Andy—”

“That _piece of shit_ did the same thing to me. Put one of his personalities in my head because he knew he was gonna die!” Rearing back, she threw her glass across the kitchen, jaw clenched as it shattered against the wall. Her breath broke on a sob, head falling forward and into her hands. “He’s taking over and I… There’s no way to…”

“There’s gotta be a way. There’s always a way.” Bucky reached out, placed a hand on her shoulder. Felt the way her body shook as she cried. “You’re gonna beat this. I know you are.”

“A can-do attitude isn’t gonna force out a psychic parasite that’s burrowed into my mind and started taking over.” Andy looked up at him, eyes bloodshot, hands curling into fists. “Hank and Emma have no idea how to get it out. When I fought against him, I had a fucking _seizure,_ Bucky. All the scarring I did to my own head just gave him more room to grow.”

“You mean when you blew up,” he said, voice soft.

“Yeah.” She looked away again, swiped angrily at her tear-stained cheeks and glared at the glass shards littering the floor. “… You know the story of Andromeda?”

“You mean the myth?”

“Mhm.” Still slumped, Andy kept her eyes fixed on the glass, voice distant. “Her mother boasted that she was more beautiful than the nereids and brought the wrath of Poseidon on them. Then her father tied her up as a sacrifice to the sea monster threatening to wipe out the whole kingdom. _Then_ some jackass rode in on a flying horse after killing Medusa and said he’d only kill the monster if he got to marry her. Her whole life, her fate rested in the hands of others. No say in what happened to her. A victim of it all.”

Buck was silent for a long moment, simply watching her. Fighting the urge to reach out and wipe away the tears himself, to pull her into his arms. As prickly as she was on her good days, he didn’t want to try and push it while she was grappling with a crisis. Finally, he reached forward for another glass, filled it, and quietly pushed it towards her.

“Good thing those are just myths, then.” Bucky let his lips twitch into a smile when she glanced up, gathered enough courage to tuck a stray bit of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know anything about… well, _any_ of this. Fighting Nazis is one thing, but whatever I can do, whatever you need… I wanna help you beat this.”

“Why?” A blunt question, asked with a sincerity that only alcohol could grant. Andy’s bloodshot eyes searched his own, confusion etched in her expression.

“Because.” He cleared his throat, pulled his hand back, turned to face the bar and let one hand rest on Alpine while the other curled around his glass of scotch. “You were there for me. Only fair that I’m there for you, too.”

“I already dragged you up to upstate New York to a place full of people that want your head on a platter.” Andy snorted, sipping at the new glass and leaning heavily against the bar. “You’ve already done more than enough, and you have your own shit to deal with. Tracking those remaining Soldiers, staying under the radar, not being picked up by the Feds and dumped in some black site…”

“Yeah, but none of those are actively threatening to override my mind and identity. You helped me with my situation. I’ve already fought my way here. Gonna be awful hard to get rid of me now, Andy.” He grinned, fingers idly stroking Alpine’s fur as she purred, curled up comfortably on the bar next to him. “You didn’t give up on me. I won’t give up on you.”

Andy was quiet for a long moment, staring down at her glass of scotch. Bucky found himself missing her usual snarky comments, her half-hearted glares, the quiet touch of her mind. She was fully withdrawn, no trace of the woman he’d known present in the hollow expression on her face. Setting her glass down and pushing it away, she ran her hands through her hair, pulling it out of its ponytail and letting it fall to hide her face. Back bowed, she heaved a long sigh, finally turning her head enough to look at him.

“It would’ve been easier if you’d given up on me like everyone else.” The admission broke his heart, the vulnerability in her gaze unsettling. Andy had always seemed bigger from the way she carried herself, even in her moments of weakness. But now… Now, she seemed small, fragile. Breakable. “… Fine. Shouldn’t stay here too long, though. Hank means well, but I don’t trust that he won’t start coming up with new shit to try and mess with my head.”

“Whatever you need.” Gathering another shred of courage, Bucky draped an arm around her shoulder, the ease with which he was able to guide her to lean against him making something unfurl warm and soft in his chest. “Would be nice to get out of here, though. Some of the folks seem nice but this place just makes me… nervous.”

“That’s because you’re smart.” Although the laugh that left her was bitter, Bucky took it. Curled his arm tighter around her when she scooted the chair closer, let her head rest on his shoulder. “… Thanks, Bucky.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” Her fingers curled around his own, gave a small squeeze. Didn’t seem to mind the cold metal of his prosthetic, let it warm under her touch. “We have to actually hang out like normal people once all this shit is over, though.”

A startled laugh escaped Bucky, his head resting against hers.

“How about this then,” he said. “Once you get your psychic parasite out and I get those remaining Soldiers dealt with, we’ll go out. Just you and me. Anywhere you want. I’ll pay.”

“Barnes, I’m the one with a cushy contractor job,” she pointed out.

“Then you can foot the bill for the next time around. But this first one? On me. You just think about where you wanna go. What you wanna do. Doesn’t matter what. Something for both of us to look forward to,” Bucky said, voice low.

 _Something to keep you around,_ he thought. _Something to keep you from doing something drastic._

“Okay.” Her voice was just as soft, her eyes fluttering closed as she rested against him. Let down her defenses, even if just for a moment. “I’m going to make a huge dent in your wallet.”

“Then I’ll make an even bigger one in yours, once it’s your turn,” he countered.

Her laugh was a bit more genuine this time, her fingers curling more comfortably around his. Bucky could almost pretend they were just any other pair out at a bar, that everything was normal and he wasn’t terrified he’d have to watch her fall apart right in front of his eyes. Eventually, one of them would have to get up and clean the broken glass. Eventually, they’d have to face reality again. But, for one blissful moment, he let himself pretend.

Pretend that they were normal, and everything was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter feels..... messy. but i wanted a bucky pov before i dived into the shit happening to andy fully. i apologize for the long wait between chapters, but life has been... a lot. everything about living in america has just been A Lot if we're being honest.
> 
> love y'all. take care of yourselves.


	12. Parasite Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: mention of suicide
> 
> _we cannot save you  
>  we cannot save you  
> we cannot save you_

Sitting under the old oak tree, you meditated for the first time in… Shit, you couldn’t even remember how long it had been since you had properly meditated. Years, perhaps. Too long, too stubborn to admit that you needed it and trying to avoid all the noise in your head, the dangerous territory that it represented. Easier to avoid it than to acknowledge all the damage that had yet to be undone, that had allowed your father to slowly take control. But now there was no avoiding it. There was no looking the other way, diving into your work, cherry picking what you did and didn’t talk about. _Deep breath in, hold it, deep breath out._ In the back of your mind, you could hear Jean Grey’s voice, patiently coaching you. Reminding you how to center yourself, block out the rest of the world, quiet the screaming in your head.

You would never admit it out loud… but you missed Jean. She’d been strict with you, on occasion. As a teenager, you’d naturally rebelled against the order she’d tried to impose on you, the lessons meant to help you keep a tight grasp on powers that had a tendency to get out of hand. But now as an adult, you wished that she could sit with you, ease your mind, lend a bit of her power to your own. Emma was good, but Emma was also too much like you. If you asked, she would bend heaven and earth to find a way to help you. She would set aside her duties as headmistress and dive into your mind, put herself in danger if it meant keeping you safe.

So. You wouldn’t ask. You _couldn’t_ ask. Not Emma. Not Hank, who would stay up days on end to conjure some machine with even the slightest hope of extracting the parasite from your head. Not Kurt, who would meditate with you and set aside everything to stay by your side until you slowly and inevitably succumbed. Not Logan, who would push you to your limits and then past them to fight to the death, to not give up until the bitter end. And not Scott, who would look at you with that sad, disappointed fatherly look and travel to the ends of the earth to find any trace of a miracle that could save you.

No. You would have to do this by yourself. Let them think that it was under control, that you knew what you were doing, while you did whatever it took to keep David Haller from haunting the earth once more.

 _You’ve always been dramatic, Andromeda._ His voice, speaking as clearly as your own thoughts.

Clenching your jaw, you squeezed your eyes further shut and dived deeper into your own consciousness. Let reality fade away, your body slumped back against the tree.

 _I got that from you,_ you told him. Conjured a space just for the two of you, drew him out of his hiding spot and made him face you there. Just like he’d looked all those years ago, before he’d gone and gotten himself killed. The same age you were now, you realized. _We should talk._

 _About time._ David Haller grinned, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them in the front of his shirt. Looking around the minimalist space you’d created, he waved a hand and created a chair for him to sit in. _I’m not your enemy, you know._

 _You forcefully implanted your core personality into my head when I was five._ Folding your arms over your chest, you glared at him, bristled at his relaxed posture. _You did to me what the Shadow King did to you all those years ago. Your own_ daughter. _Don’t try to fool me into thinking you’re the good guy here._

 _Be stupid for me to try,_ he admitted, leaning back and running a hand through his wild, dark hair. _I’m under no illusion of being some hero here, kid. But I did what I had to._

 _Are you fucking serious?_ You let your hands curl into fists, temper rising, edges of the mindscape going dark. _Are you really so delusional that you think things would go differently than they did the first time?_

 _I tried to make sure the world would still have your grandfather for as long as it needed him._ Glancing up, he frowned as the white walls turned black, a distant crack of thunder in the distance. _I… made a mistake. But I can fix it._ We _can fix it._

 _You almost tore apart reality itself._ Shaking your head, you paced back and forth, tried to reign in your anger, keep it from tearing the space apart. Not yet. _And I’ve built a life for myself. As close to normal as I can be. Why would I ever let you take all of that away from me?_

 _Because you can do good. Because you are capable of so much but refuse to let yourself acknowledge that fact._ Turning his dark blue gaze on you, David Haller almost looked… sad, for a moment. _Mutants need a savior like you._

 _Like me? Or like you? Because the only thing either of us have ever been good at was destroying things,_ you pointed out. _You almost tore the world apart and erased yourself from existence instead. I lost control and almost killed myself in the process, crippled my own powers. Even you’re not crazy enough to think that either of us are anything other than failures._

 _But together, we could change things. Make the world a better place._ He spread his hands open, expression pleading. _It’s what your mother would have wanted._

 _Don’t._ You stopped pacing, turned to jab a finger at him. _Don’t bring her into this._

_Ruth wanted more. Couldn’t see a future for herself, but we could—_

**_Shut up._ **

The thought reverberated through the space, a spark of what you had once been, what you could still be, igniting for a brief moment. But it was gone just as soon as it had appeared, leaving you feeling just as empty as before. You took a deep breath, wrapped your arms around yourself.

_Andromeda. Your mother only ever saw a future without her in it. But nothing is permanent. If we just worked together, we could—_

_My mother is gone,_ you interrupted. _Don’t disturb the peace she found and drag her memory into this._

Your father was quiet for a moment. Simply watched you with his uncanny eyes, your sense of unease growing with each passing moment. When he finally sighed, stood up and let the chair disappear, you tensed.

 _You look just like her, you know._ He stepped closer to you, hesitated for a moment before placing a hand on your shoulder. _You did when you were little, too. It was painful to look at you, because all it did was remind me of her. Reminded me of everything we’d lost. What could be brought back._

 _The past is the past. Trying to change it only makes it hurt worse._ You shrugged off his hand, took a step back. _She wouldn’t have wanted you to rip the world apart. I never knew her, but I think it’s safe to say that utter destruction and the forceful possession of the child you had with her aren’t things she’d be wild about._

 _I don’t want to take over. Not fully. I just want to share this body with you. Help you make the world a better place._ Slowly, he lowered his hand. Stared at it, expression darkening. _I wanted to keep you safe, you know. I tried to warn you about what he was doing to you._

The Shadow had whispered about the sedatives in the tea, had been there when you’d fallen apart. For once in your life, your father had been there for you, but only to lend a hand in your complete psionic meltdown. You shoved away painful memories of bruises you couldn’t remember getting, lost time, your house burning down around you.

 _We could be Gestalt,_ he continued. _We could be Legion._

 _No._ You took another step back, forced yourself to tip your chin up, to stand tall. _We are nothing but our core selves. You are David Haller. I am Andromeda Haller. Gestalt and Legion are dead and gone. All that remains are the ruins of what you created._

 _Don’t do it._ Your father tried to reach for you, but remained frozen in place. Shackled in your mind with what little power you could conjure to hold him back for the moment. Eventually, he would break free. You both knew it. But all you needed was to buy a little more time. _The plans you’ve made. Don’t go through with them. Please._

 _If Plan A fails, then Plan B will make sure neither of us are ever a threat to anyone ever again._ You allowed yourself a moment to pity your father. A man driven to extremes by grief and delusions he couldn’t separate from reality, desperately clinging to one last shred of hope. _Not my family. Not my friends. Not anyone._

_Andromeda, no—_

Reality rushed back in. The chill in the early morning air, the soft flurry of snow falling from the grey skies above you, your body hovering in the air, hair a dark halo around your head. Deep breath in, slow breath out. A blanket had been draped over your shoulders, keeping a bit of warmth in your body, guarding it somewhat from the chill. The slow fizz of your powers died, your butt making jarring contact with the ground and your good hand coming up to clutch at the blanket to keep it from falling away. Unclenching your jaw, you let out another slow exhale, watched your breath fog. Snow crunched under boots and you looked up to find Scott Summers standing before you, hands in his pockets, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Rachel said that you were cold,” he told you, glancing down and drawing your attention to a tuft of bright red hair peeking out from behind his legs. For a brief moment, your heart lodged in your throat. You recognized that shade of fiery red, a distant echo of Jean’s warm touch in your mind before it faded and a little girl leaned out enough for you to see her face properly. “You shouldn’t be out here without a coat.”

“Oh,” you whispered.

Jean had a daughter. No more than three or four years old, the spitting image of her mother, eyes bright with curiosity as you stared right back at her. So young and already picking up on your thoughts, it seemed. Her mother’s daughter, a fact that quietly broke your heart. Was this the fate of all the children born in the shadow of Charles Xavier? To grow up without at least one parent, if not both? To bear the burden of being a mutant, of being more than, so young? Clutching the blanket closer, you managed to smile, tried your best to school your thoughts so that she wouldn’t pick up on your despair, your rage, your helplessness.

“Thank you,” you told her.

The girl ducked back behind Scott’s legs, shyness radiating off her in waves. Carefully tucking away the lingering sense of doom you felt after your conversation with your father, you started to stand, gaze rising to meet Scott’s. Even behind his thick, dark sunglasses, you always knew when he was leveling a look at you, appraising you, trying to decide what fatherly bit of advice to bestow upon you. His time with Jean and your grandfather had given him ironclad psychic defenses; even if you had wanted to read his mind, the attempt would have worn you out. Instead, you took his extended hand and let him help you up the rest of the way. When he reached up to ruffle your hair, brushing snow out of it, you almost flinched away. If he noticed, he was kind enough not to point it out, turning his attention to his daughter instead.

“Rachel, why don’t you go and check in with Logan to see if breakfast is ready?” he asked, voice soft. Gentle in a way that made a piece of your heart crack, in both envy for the tenderness and joy for the kindness she was surrounded by. “I’ll be back in soon, okay?”

There was a hesitance in her big eyes, glancing from him to you, fingers curling into his pants. But eventually she gave a slow nod, stared at you for a moment longer before she turned and trotted up the hill back to the manor, little boots crunching in the snow and hair bright against the dreary sky. When she disappeared from sight, Scott let out a long sigh, hands shoved back in his pockets as he turned his full attention back to you.

“How are you?” he asked.

Terrible. You’d barely slept, and what little sleep you had gotten was haunted by visions of things you didn’t understand, technicolor nightmares that still lingered at the back of your mind. Not even the scotch had helped, only left you feeling slightly hungover, a dull pain in your temples.

“Fine,” you lied, “all things considered. Haven’t had another seizure yet and the parasite hasn’t made any move to completely take over. Not feeling murder-y, either, so. Could be worse.”

Scott heaved a sigh that you were far too familiar with, hand coming up to rub at his temples. It was a bit heart-warming to know that you could still give him headaches, even all these years later.

“I still think it would be best if you stayed here for a while. Let us put you under so we could find a solution to all of this,” he said, frowning. “It would be safest for everyone involved.”

“I have a life outside of this place, you know.” Shaking your head, you headed back up the path towards the manor, the chill starting to get to you, damaged and replaced joints in your knee stiff from the cold. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll figure this out myself.”

“How, exactly?” Easily matching your strides, his frown only deepened when you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself and glared at the ground. “It’s okay to ask for help. We’re just… we’re just glad to have you back, even if only temporarily. It’s good to know that you’re safe. But we want to keep it that way. Let us help you, Andromeda.”

Saying yes would have been so easy. Despite the fear you’d held so close to your heart when you left, you knew now that the people you’d grown up with, the family that had chosen you, would do whatever it took to help you. To save you. Lucidity was eye opening, and you could feel the guilt rolling off of them in waves. You didn’t need to read his mind to know that Scott was still wondering what he could have done differently, how he could have helped back then, how he could help _now._ But you couldn’t drag him into this. Not when Scott and Logan had a daughter to look after. You wouldn’t make her grow up without her fathers.

“Who was Ruth?” you asked instead, veering the subject off course.

Skillfully, too. Scott tensed up, his gaze dropping away from you and towards the ground as well. Not once had anyone mentioned her name around you. Of course, you’d never really asked. But from his body language alone, you could tell that Scott Summers had been dreading having this conversation with you for a long, long time.

“How did you hear her name?” he asked, voice low.

As an answer, you simply tapped your temple. It was all the answer he needed. He sighed, pausing at the doors to the manor, fingers twitching for a moment before he finally opened them for you.

“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to have this conversation. But everything’s inevitable,” he said, closing the doors behind him and motioning for you to follow him as he walked the opposite way from the kitchen. “We should go somewhere quiet.”

Making a scene would have been easy, demanding that he just _tell you,_ that you’d both waited long enough for the conversation to happen. But you could see the slump to his shoulders, feel the grief weighing heavy on him. Not just grief, but guilt. Heavy and palpable, even without you reaching out and with his mind carefully locked away. The hallway to his office seemed long, longer than you remembered, silence heavy around you. It was early enough that not everyone was awake, the students kept in a different building now. Away from the adults, away from the sins of their past. You draped the blanket over the back of a chair when you stepped inside, rubbing at your arm as he closed the door behind you and let out another heavy sigh.

“Ruth Aldine. That was her name. When she was active on missions, she used the moniker Blindfold.” Scott sat down behind his desk, pulled open a drawer and took out a photo album, the cover sporting a thin layer of dust. As he flipped it open, you sank down into a chair across from him, a chill still in your bones. “She was born without eyes or eye sockets. Her mutation made her an empath, a precog, a telepath. Low threat level, but a good portion of her powers had been stolen from her before she came to us by her brother in the moments before his supposed death.”

Turning the album towards you, Scott was silent for a moment. Let you lean forwards, see the class photo that he’d turned to. The year notated at the bottom was only a few years before you had been born, the class smaller than the ones you’d been in. He didn’t need to point out your mother. You spotted her immediately, the cloth tied around where her eyes would have been. Like you, she was smaller than most of her peers, carried herself like she was trying to appear even smaller. And your father had been right. You _did_ look like her. The same black hair, same skin tone, even the same freckles just barely visible below the edge of her blindfold. If she’d had eyes… you imagine they would have looked like your own, the same shape if not the same color after your father’s meddling. Your fingertips skimmed over her, the melancholy expression on her face.

“She came to us when she was a teenager. Mostly quiet, didn’t have many friends, but those she did have she was fiercely loyal to.” Scott kept his voice low, folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “And then your father came along.”

Pulling away, you let him flip a few more pages in the photo album, years passing easily, quickly. The next photo he stopped on was one of your parents, your mother’s hand resting on the bulge of her belly, a peaceful smile on her face. And your father… you’d never seen him smile before. Never thought he was really capable of it. But he looked at peace. Happy. In love, his arm wrapped around your mother. Neither of them could have been older than twenty, barely adults. 

“You were a surprise. One none of us were really expecting, but… For all his faults, his instability, David loved Ruth. Had fought to be with her, to make her happy, against destiny itself. We all thought having a family of his own would be good for him. Keep him on the path he had started down, making himself whole again.” Scott sighed, pulling the album back and closing it. “All that progress, up in smoke.”

“What happened to her?” you asked.

He hesitated. Struggled for a moment, placing the album back in its drawer and tried to find the right words to say. You waited, the knot of dread only growing heavier and colder in the pit of your stomach. Finally, he reached out. Took the hand that wasn’t in a cast, fingers curling around yours gently.

“After you were born, she wasn’t able to see the future that she had before. Her visions all ended in violent death. For her, for us. She couldn’t see a future for herself. Couldn’t see a future for you, at least not one that she told us.” Scott gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “She killed herself, Andromeda.”

And there it was. The truth didn’t hurt as much as it should have. Perhaps some part of you had already known, had suspected it. But it still stung, knowing that she hadn’t died in a blaze of glory, or giving birth to you, or quietly giving in to a disease. Your mother had given birth to you and seen nothing but death and destruction and taken her own life. Had you done that to her? Had your birth caused some crack in the universe that led to nothing but pain? You didn’t realize you were crying until the first tears dropped onto the smooth surface of the desk, your vision blurring.

“Ruth came to me, not long before…” Taking both of your hands in his, careful of the brace that Hank had put on your broken wrist, Scott waited until you looked up at him before he continued. “She told me that the mistakes we make follow us, even in death. Warned me not to… not to do the things I was about to do. Saved me from my own mistakes. Told Logan to look out for me. And I wish I could have saved her the way she saved me.”

“Who found her?” you asked, voice small.

“Your father. She’d given you to Jean for the night, said she had work to do. We were just… just glad that you weren’t there.” When he reached out, wiped the tears from your face, you didn’t jerk away. Didn’t snarl or hiss. You just let him. Let yourself feel like a scared, lonely kid desperately seeking comfort all over again. “But he wasn’t the same again. Not after that.”

An image flashed across your mind, one that you knew wasn’t your own. A woman, slumped in a tub, dark hair obscuring her face and a damning final message written in blood on the wall.

**_THIS IS FOREVER_ **

“He didn’t just leave that day to try and save Xavier,” you said, trying to blink the vision away, trying to clear your mother’s final, tragic moments from your mind’s eye. _Fuck you,_ you told your father, _fuck you for showing me._

“No. He didn’t. I think he was trying to bring Ruth back, too.” Scott cradled your face in his hands, like he had so many years ago when you woke him up in the middle of the night after a nightmare, thumbs brushing away your tears, lingering on the scar below your right eye. “I don’t want you to end up like your mother, Andromeda. Please. Let us help you.”

“I think I need some time alone,” you said, pulling back. Pulling away, wiping at your own face and forcing yourself to hold your head high. Ignore the pain, the despair. The overwhelming feeling that you couldn’t escape the shadows your parents had cast. “Just… just give me some time to think.”

Time to think, time to talk with Bucky. Tie up loose ends, send him home, some place safe while you finalized your plans, such as they were. There were things that you wanted but that you knew you couldn’t have, knew you had to deny yourself.

Bucky Barnes deserved better than the heir to a dynasty of death and destruction, a legacy of tragedy and madness.

“We’re here if you need us.” Scott stood with you, disappointment heavy and heartbreaking in his tone. “All of us.”

Giving him a wordless nod, you retreated from his office. It felt as if a great weight pressed down on your shoulders, your chest, squeezed the air from your lungs. You wanted to hate your mother for taking the easy way out. For sending your father hurtling down into the depths of his own madness all over again, for leaving you behind to pick up the pieces. But the only person you could bring yourself to hate was yourself.

 _We were supposed to be enemies._ Your father’s voice. Still restrained in a far corner of your psyche, but ever present. _We fell in love instead._

You didn’t respond. You didn’t want to acknowledge what he was saying, arms wrapped around yourself as you walked through the halls of your childhood home. Followed some invisible path to a destination you couldn’t yet see.

 _I suppose you got that from me,_ he continued.

 _Shut up._ You held yourself tighter, hung your head and walked faster.

 _You know what I once told her?_ A wistful tone to his voice, laced with the pain you’d grown so familiar with. _That I would circle around her until the stars died and the world had forgotten what made us different. That I would shatter any future that dared to divide us._

 _Turned out great. Bloody job well done on that one,_ you snarled.

 _I failed the first few times. Had to retry again and again, reset the world until I found the one branch, the one path that didn’t end with us being torn apart,_ your father said, ignoring your anger, your attempts to shut him up, shove him further down. _And even then, I couldn’t keep her._

No. He couldn’t. All that hard work, all that pain, and it had ended the same way it always had before he had rent reality, bent it to his will. Both of them dead, a child in the shadow of their father, struggling under the burden of a dark, bloody legacy. His presence faded once more, fell silent for the moment. How long that would last, you didn’t know. With each passing moment, he grew stronger and you grew weaker, the bonds that held him at bay fraying and weakening. Time was running out, and there was still so much that you had to do.

You stopped, staring at the door in front of you. One of the training rooms, where you’d learned how to fight. After all, telepathy and telekinesis didn’t work on everyone, and when push came to shove, all of Xavier’s little army had to rely on being able to win in a knock down, drag out fist fight. You weren’t sure, at first, what had brought you there. But it was obvious once you opened the door and stepped inside. Kurt Wagner hung by one of the rafters by his tail, grinning down at Bucky, who was sprawled on his back. Both men were catching their breath, and you’d clearly missed a sparring session. Something to get out the restlessness, you suspected, the aggression. An excuse for Kurt to see how well HYDRA had trained their best weapon.

Whether you’d subconsciously sought out Kurt or Bucky for comfort, you didn’t know. You didn’t _want_ to know, didn’t want to untangle that mess of thoughts and feelings. Instead, you let the door slide closed behind you, hoped it wasn’t too obvious that you had been crying when both men turned to look at you. While Kurt remained where he was, Bucky immediately sat up, started to push himself to his feet.

“You’re up early, _schatzi,_ ” Kurt said, amusement doing a poor job of masking his concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” you lied. Kept your eyes on him instead of on Bucky, the way sweat made his shirt cling to him. “I hope you went easy on him.”

“Never fought someone who teleports before,” Bucky said, voice a bit breathless. It was distracting in the worst possible way, and you fought to keep your expression neutral as he lifted his shirt, wiped at the sweat on his face. “Just… wanted a distraction. Mr. Wagner suggested sparring.”

“Did you know that Mr. Barnes fought a bear once?” Kurt disappeared in a puff of dark blue smoke, reappeared at your side with a grin. “In a Russian gulag, no less.”

That fact succeeded in distracting you both from your impending doom and the flash of skin you’d seen. Snorting, you finally glanced at Bucky, who looked a bit sheepish.

“Now that’s not a memory I remember unraveling,” you said.

“Happened a long time ago,” he said with a shrug.

“Fought a bear and _won,”_ Kurt continued, draping an arm over your shoulders and leaning in with a mischievous grin. “But it seems he’s slowed down a bit since then.”

“Just a little rusty.” Bucky huffed, but you could see the way one corner of his lips twitched, fighting back a smile. “You okay?”

“Like I already said,” you told him, rolling your eyes, “I’m _fine._ Just a little restless.”

“Then why don’t you spar a bit with your friend?” Kurt suggested, amused when you looked at him in shock. “What? It helped our restlessness. And I know that you have kept up at least some of your training, Andromeda.”

He wasn’t wrong. Although you didn’t train every day the way you had as a teenager, you still kept yourself from getting too rusty. Old habits died hard, but you were hesitant. What was keeping your father from breaking his bonds faster, seeing a harmless sparring session as a genuine threat and making Bucky’s head explode? You couldn’t let that happen.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bucky said, expression uneasy. You started to agree, but then he continued. “She’s still got a broken wrist. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Kurt slowly turned to look down at you, a knowing look in his eyes. You never could turn down a challenge, had always had a bad habit of going out of your way to prove yourself. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath. Oh, you _hated_ how well he knew you. Pulling away from the other mutant, you rolled up the sleeves of your shirt, used the hair tie you kept on your wrist to pull your hair up.

“Trust me,” you told Bucky, “you won’t hurt me.”

“Andy.” He held his hands up, expression alarmed as you stepped onto the mat in the center of the room, kicking off your shoes. “You had a seizure, you’ve still got a broken wrist, and after how much you drank last night, you’re probably a little hungover. You aren’t in any shape to spar.”

“I took down a Winter Soldier while suffering psychic backlash. I was trained by Wolverine.” Folding your arms over your chest, you stared him down. “I can hold my own. Or are you just scared to have your ass kicked by a little girl in her pajamas?”

 _That_ struck a nerve. You knew it would. You’d felt his pride before, how easy it was to poke and prod at. Bucky’s eye twitched, a muscle in his jaw ticked. It was almost too easy. With a great, heaving sigh, he stepped onto the mat with you. Easily a foot taller than you, muscle bound, fast for his size and with just enough enhancement to make him a threat. But you felt at ease. Not just because you knew he would pull his punches, but because you knew that he underestimated you. All he’d ever seen of you was the reclusive programmer, holed up in your cave with your computer or reluctantly dragging yourself to therapy sessions.

Bucky hadn’t seen the Andromeda Haller you had been. And even if he had fought a bear once and won, you were confident that even with a broken wrist and a foggy brain, you could win the fight.

“One round,” he said, falling into a defensive position. “And if I say it’s over, then it’s—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. You didn’t give him a chance to. Bursting forward, you lunged at him, fist connecting with his jaw. Any normal person would have been staggered by the blow, hit the ground hard. But you would take the stunned look on his face. Taking advantage of his momentary shock, you swept his legs out from under him, placed a hand on his chest and _shoved._ He hit the ground hard, breath escaping him in a rush. Pinning him to the ground, you braced your hands on either side of his head and grinned.

“I think I take this round,” you said, allowing yourself a moment to feel smug. “It’s okay, Barnes. You win some, you lose some. I won’t tell—”

The world tilted. Before you could react, Bucky had reversed your positions, hands pinning your arms to the ground, knees braced on either side of your hips. He’d moved so fast you hadn’t even realized what was happening until it was too late. Looming over you, he chuckled, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I’m impressed,” he said, “but I think I take this round.”

You wanted to say something witty, find some way to wriggle out from under him and pin him again. But the position you were in hit you all at once, the easy strength with which he held you down, prosthetic fingers wrapped just below your brace to avoid hurting you. Heat rushed to your face and words died on your tongue, a loose strand of hair falling from his ponytail and brushing against your flushed skin. His face was so close to yours, and if you just leaned up a little bit—

Bucky let go of you as if your skin had burned him, shooting to his feet. Still a bit dazed, you remained on your back, reeling at the turn your thoughts had taken. By the time you sat up, he had his back to you, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel. Kurt watched, perched on top of one of the weight benches, a knowing look in his eyes. Somehow, that only made it worse. Were you really that obvious? Standing up with a grunt, you ran your hands over your face. This whole thing was a mistake. Bringing him to the manor, getting distracted by these little moments.

“I’m gonna go hit the shower,” Bucky said, towel draped around his neck when he finally turned to face you. “Get some meditation in. If anything happens—”

“We will be sure to let you know.” Kurt interrupted him, waving a hand dismissively. “Go on, I’ve taken enough of your time already.”

Giving him a grateful nod, Bucky started for the door but paused. He turned back towards you, reached out to give you a gentle pat to the head.

“Whatever you decide,” he told you, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m with you.”

 _Longing._ It hit you like a punch to the gut, left you breathless. It was hard to tell where his ended and yours began, a complicated web growing more tangled with each passing day. Even with your mind well-guarded, carefully locked up to keep everyone around you safe, a part of you still reached out towards him. _ты красивая,_ his mind whispered, as if it knew you were listening. When he pulled his hand away, you stared up at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Before you could, he was out the door, presence growing distant as he retreated to the room he’d been set up in.

“I’ve never known you to be shy about your affections.” Kurt kept his voice low, his expression sympathetic when you slowly turned to look at him. “What changed?”

He was right, of course. Before, you had never been shy, never been afraid to pursue the people you were interested in. Before Bucky. Before the fire. Before _him._ But everything had changed. You had changed. Much as you liked to pretend otherwise, your heart was a fragile thing. Pieced together carefully, still in a bit of a shambles, made of jagged edges.

“I don’t know.” Your fingers curled around the spot where his prosthetic fingers had been, warm where his had been cold, trying to hold onto the memory of his body pressed against your own. You could have denied it, denied your feelings, but… “He’s different.”

Kurt’s smile was sad. Knowing, understanding. You’d seen his own heartbreak as a child, knew that at some level, he comprehended what you were saying. Not just that you had changed, but that Bucky was _different_ than all the others. Different in a way that scared you, that made you careful in ways you’d never been before. Everything you’d built seemed to be crumbling around you, and you still weren’t sure what the fallout would be. When Kurt wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into a hug, you leaned into it gladly. Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself a moment of comfort. This man had raised you like his own child, had never really given up on you, had always had hope that you would return.

You only hoped he would forgive you for what you planned to do.

\---

“…be back soon, if it all goes well.”

You stopped in front of Bucky’s half-open door, not meaning to eavesdrop but listening in anyway. Since the incident in the training room, you’d been avoiding him. Hiding away in the massive library, searching for a particular book and ducking down other halls if you sensed him nearby. There were too many things for you to still sort out and he was just so _distracting._ Just being around him made you want to forget all about your impending loss of identity, the psychic parasite that you’d temporarily bound. But you lingered, book hugged to your chest, and battled with yourself.

On one hand, you knew you needed to talk to him. He’d come to the manor for you, after all. Had let Emma root around in his memories and extract information about HYDRA so that he would be allowed to stay, to be moral support for you. It seemed kind of fucked up to continue to avoid him, leave him alone in an unfamiliar place with hostile people. You wanted to talk to him about that little moment you’d shared, too. Figure out if you were just reading too much into it, or if he… well, if he felt the same as you.

On the other hand, you were afraid of the further distraction. You didn’t know just how much time you had left, and if you were going to put your Plan A into motion, you needed to focus. There was still more for you to do, and you knew that if you sought out Bucky, all of that would be derailed. All it would take was one look, one word from him, and everything else would disappear.

You really, _really_ had it bad for him. And it was increasingly becoming a problem.

Giving in, you rapped your knuckles on the doorway before pushing the door all the way open and freezing. Just your luck. Bucky Barnes wasn’t wearing a fucking shirt. Looking up, he blinked in surprise before quickly looking away again.

“I’ll call you in a bit, Stevie. … No, everything’s fine, I just—I said I’ll call you back,” he snapped into the phone before jamming his thumb on the End Call icon with a bit more force than was necessary. Standing up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, he cleared his throat. “Uh… Hey, Andy, I was just—”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” you said, pointedly looking down at the ground so that you weren’t staring at his big, stupid muscles. “I can, uh, just head out.”

“No!” When you risked a glance up, he’d turned his back to you, fumbling for a shirt. You took the chance to admire his broad shoulders, the sturdy way he was built, the faint scars around his prosthetic shoulder and one long, nasty scar that ran across his shoulder blades. Once he succeeded in locating a shirt to pull on over his head, you turned your gaze downward again. Alpine had hopped off the bed to rub against your legs, purring up a storm. “No, Steve was just checkin’ in to make sure we were both okay. You, uh… You’ve been busy today.”

“I had a lot of work to do,” you told him, crouching to stroke Alpine’s fluffy white fur. Not technically a lie; you’d holed up in your room for a while to get some actual work done so no one at your job got too suspicious. And the research you’d done, looking through archives and journals and books tucked away in hidden parts of the library, counted as work in your mind, too. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” Bucky crouched down in front of you, Alpine abandoning you to rub up against him instead, arching her back when he ran his fingers through her fur. “Just been worried about you is all. Ran into Mr. Summers after lunch and he seemed pretty concerned, too.”

“Yeah, well, concerned is sort of his normal mode. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him _not_ worried about something.” Shrugging, you tried to wave it off, even though your heart sank. Scott knew something was up. You’d have to work quickly to make sure he didn’t catch on. “How’ve you been holding up?”

“Other than being worried about my friend who got stupid drunk last night and confessed that there’s something seriously wrong with her? Peachy.” Bucky quirked an eyebrow when you looked up at him. “Seriously, Andy. I should be the last thing you worry about right now. I’m holding up. You just focus on doing what you need to.”

Oh, you were trying to. But he was making it hard for you. Hugging the book you’d swiped from the library closer to your chest, you sighed.

“… Can I be honest with you?” you murmured.

“Hopin’ so, yeah. What’s up?” Bucky asked, frowning.

“There’s an… option. That I can take. Something that I think can solve the problem, give me the boost I need to be able to uproot my father from inside my head and kick his ass back to the astral plane. But it’s risky,” you admitted. “A huge gamble. There’s about as high a chance of it not working as there is of it succeeding, if not higher.”

“What happens if it fails?” he asked, voice low.

“Worst case scenario? The piece of my dad in my head absorbs it and takes over, either completely obliterates my mind or manages to shove me permanently out of my body and into the astral plane myself. Best case scenario?” You sighed, shifting so that you were sitting on the ground. “I die.”

“Andy—”

“It’s the best option I have right now,” you said, interrupting him before he could properly argue and setting down the book in your lap. “Time is working against me. If I’m put into a trance so Emma can try to work on me, or put into a coma so Hank can do some kind of psionic surgery, there’s a high chance that he’ll just take over. Take that opportunity to make a move and do something stupid to put all of you in danger. Even though this is only a small fragment of him, he’s powerful. More powerful than I am after what I did to myself.”

“This option. What exactly is it?”

God, how did you even go about explaining it? Even through your research, the stories you’d heard in your childhood, your own knowledge was incomplete. Enough that you hoped your plan would work, but still not a real understanding.

“There’s this… thing. A force in the universe. It used to live in Jean Grey, back before I was born. Only a fragment of it remained until she died. But there are other fragments. Scattered pieces and sparks. I think I know a way to absorb one of those sparks, and if I do, it could boost my powers enough to give me the push I need to make my mind my own again.” You ran your fingers over the embossed image of a phoenix on the cover of the book, feeling a quiet spike of nerves. “Or it could kill me. Either way, problem solved.”

“Y’know, there are times when I miss the old days. When there weren’t crazy cosmic psionic forces and aliens invading New York.” Bucky ran his hands over his face, a bone deep exhaustion rolling off him in waves. Scratching at his jaw, he held your gaze. “… There’s really no other way?”

“Not that I can think of under pressure, no.” You shrugged again, looking away from him.

“You’re not gonna die.” Bucky rested a hand on your knee, gave it a soft squeeze. When you looked up again, he gave you a crooked smile. “Not if I’ve got anything to say about it. Crazy as this whole scheme of yours is, much as I don’t like there bein’ any chance of you dying… If you think this is the best chance of saving yourself, I’ve got your back. Whatever I can do to help, you just tell me.”

You should have told him that there was a chance even a small spark of the phoenix would overwhelm you, drive you insane, devour your personality and leave you even worse off than you were then. But you didn’t. He didn’t need to know that. And if it happened… If it happened, you would no longer be lucid enough to worry about it. You’d worried him enough as it was. Dragged him away from his life, from his own problems. The thought came to you before you could stop it, fell from your lips in a rush.

“I want you to be there with me. When I call it,” you said. Tried not to recoil in horror at your own words, your own thoughts. Stupid. Putting him there with you put him in _danger,_ put him at risk if you lost control. Shaking your head, you rubbed at your temples. “No. Stupid. Forget I said that. You shouldn’t—”

“I’ll be there.” Before you could backtrack, talk him out of it, he was scooting closer to you. “Whatever you need. Don’t shut me out.”

You took a deep breath, squeezed your eyes shut. _Stupid. Stupid, stupid Andromeda. What the hell made you think that would be a good idea?_ Having a distraction around while you called a piece of a powerful cosmic force into yourself? It was suicidal. But some part of you wanted him there with you. Didn’t want to be alone when it happened.

 _He grounds you,_ your father whispered. Already starting to slip his bonds. _That’s why._

 _Shut up,_ you snarled back, pushed hard, shoved him back into his dark little corner.

But a part of you wondered. Was that why? Did Bucky ground you? Or were you just so goddamn head over heels for him that you’d take any excuse to have him by your side? Maybe you just wanted him there at the end. A familiar face before you faced down death or ego death… or both.

“I don’t know what’ll happen,” you whispered, hands curling into fists. “I…”

 _I’m scared._ Words you wanted to say, but couldn’t. Bucky gently took your hands in his own, uncurled your fingers from their white-knuckle fists, laced his own with them. Eyes snapping open, you stared at him, heart in your throat. His smile was small, echoing the own fear you felt. But he gently squeezed your hands, his prosthetic fingers cold around your own. But his other hand… it was warm, his skin calloused, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“Like I told you earlier,” he whispered. “I’m with you. No matter what happens. Can’t have you disappearin’ on me before I get that date you promised me.”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, genuine and surprised. Something warm and syrupy bloomed in your chest, coated your ribs, slowly began to replace the cold dread you’d been feeling for the past few days. Letting go of one of his hands, you gave his chest a light shove, blinking back tears that threatened to spill.

“I never agreed to it being a _date,”_ you teased, flush rising to your cheeks again. “Don’t push it, Barnes.”

When he laughed, you swore your heart skipped a beat, fingers curling tighter around his own. Mischief sparked in his eyes, a distant echo of the man he had been, the young soldier you’d seen in his memories. Different, but still there. Scooting even closer, his knees pressed against yours, he let your joined hands rest in your lap.

“So,” he said. “What exactly is calling this thing to you gonna entail?”

“Well.” The question felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over you, banishing all the warmth you’d felt. Clearing your throat, you shifted awkwardly. “That’s… that’s the thing.”

You took a deep breath. Forced yourself to look him in the eye, face him as you broke the news.

“I need to kill myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ marvel give us the blindfold/legion series written by simon spurrier that we all deserve!!! don't be cowards!!
> 
> also can't believe it took me this long to reference that one time that bucky fought a bear. canonically. wild.
> 
> love y'all. take care of yourselves.


	13. Avalanche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: suicide attempt, suicidal ideation, brief mention of previous suicide.** no overly explicit descriptions, but please approach this chapter with caution if any of the previously mentioned things could trigger you.
> 
> _It's like an avalanche, I feel myself go under  
>  'Cause the weight of it's like hands around my neck  
> I never stood a chance, my heart has frozen over  
> And I feel like I am treading on thin ice, and I'm going under_

Pain lanced through your temples, almost driving you to your knees. Edges of your vision going dark, you could taste the salty, metallic tang of blood on the back of your tongue, feel it trickle thick from your nose down your lips and chin. Your jaw was clenched so hard you wondered if your teeth were going to crack, fingers trembling as you opened the door to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

“Fuck you,” you rasped under your breath, leaning back against the door once you’d shut it, sliding down to the floor. “Fuck you, _not now._ ”

In only a matter of hours, your father had managed to slip his bonds. Rip them apart, piece by piece, and claw his way out of the little corner of your psyche you’d put him in. Fighting back was taking every ounce of your strength, became harder with each passing second. A few minutes past 4 am and the manor was quiet, sleeping minds surrounding you, the silence eerie. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, you swiped at your nose and lips with the back of your hand, pushing yourself to your hands and knees, crawling towards the sink.

**_I WON’T LET YOU DO THIS._ **

Your father’s voice was an all-consuming roar, sent another wave of pain through your throbbing, heavy head. Clenching your jaw harder to keep from crying out, from whimpering, from screaming, you pushed through it. Fought against the parasite that had become a piece of you over two decades, knowing that it was a losing battle but hoping that it would give you the time you needed. Your blood-slick fingers closed around the edge of the sink, nails scraping against the porcelain as you pulled yourself up. Leaning heavily against the sink, you stared at your reflection, vision blurring for a moment as your father clawed against the edges of your mind.

Just a few hours earlier, you’d shut your father out as you crafted a plan with Bucky. How stupid you’d been to think that you’d have any kind of time. David Haller was the God Mutant, and even just one piece of his many selves could shred your own weakened, scarred mind to ribbons without breaking a sweat. No, you’d told him, you wouldn’t _actually_ kill yourself. Just put yourself into a trance, get close to it, have him there to monitor you and resuscitate you if it came to that. Pills. It was going to be pills. Ignoring a wave of dizziness, you wrenched open the medicine cabinet, clumsily fumbling through the pill bottles. Harmless things, little capsules that would only make you sick at worst, nothing that would push you close to the line. Throwing a bottle of aspirin to the ground with a growl, you blinked back hot tears.

**_I WON’T LET YOU KILL ME. I WON’T LET YOU KILL US._ **

“Come on,” you rasped, throwing beard oil and toothpaste and vitamins to the floor. “Come _on,_ I know it’s still here, I know…”

And there it was. The straight razor that Scott used to shave, had been using for as long as you could remember. A creature of habit, god bless him. You nearly sobbed as your fingers closed around the handle, a wave of relief going through you.

This wasn’t how you’d wanted this to happen. This wasn’t how you wanted to go. But you’d rather bleed out alone in a bathroom in your childhood home than lose control, let a dead man take control of your body and mind.

**_ANDROMEDA. PLEASE._ **

Desperate, now. There was a frightened edge to your father’s voice, the tendrils of himself that he’d sent out into your mind pausing. Just for a moment. Was it dying for real that he was afraid of? Of being shuffled off the mortal coil for good this time, no piece of himself stuffed away in a child’s head to continue a pathetic excuse of an existence? Or was he thinking of your mother’s death, that image he’d shown you? A poetic way to go, you thought bitterly, sitting down heavily on the floor and rolling up your sleeves. A chill traveled down your right arm, your fingers twitching as he tried to take control. But you pushed, you _shoved,_ you burned the bits of him that had started to bleed into you. Not yet. Not ever, if you could help it. Flipping open the razor, you wedged it under the brace Hank had put on your right wrist, cut through it and let it fall away. Your wrist and hand were still fucked up, still mottled with dark bruises, the careful stitches from where bone had burst through your skin already clipped away, fresh, puckered scars that were almost closed. When you tried to move it, you could feel the still mending bones grind against each other, the pins and screws that had been installed to keep it straight. But the pain was nothing compared to your head, the all-encompassing agony your father was inflicting on you in his struggle to consume what little remained of you.

_How long have you wanted to die?_ he asked you. Softly. Sadly. A gentle whisper against the roar of his very presence, the rush of your own pulse. _Is this just an excuse? A good reason for you to finally give in?_

“I should have died in that fire.” You leaned back against the edge of the tub, watched the light reflect off the surface of the razor. “… I _wanted_ to die in that fire. I think most of me did die then. The rest of me is just catching up.”

_You told him that you wanted him here with you. You promised him that you wouldn’t die._

“Yeah, well.” You closed your eyes, let out a bitter laugh. “I’ve always been a liar.”

A piece of you did still want him there. Cruel as it was, you didn’t want to go alone. If you were going to toe the line between life and death, you wanted to do it with someone at your side, a warm hand to hold yours, someone prepared to do whatever it took to bring you back. But it was one thing to take a few too many pills and slip into a deep sleep. It was another to slash your wrists open right in front of him. You wouldn’t do that to him. And if your insane gamble didn’t work out, you didn’t want him to be the one to find you, either.

Your mother had done that to your father. But you prayed that one of your estranged family would take that bullet for him.

_You know there’s a much greater chance of whatever pieces remain of the Phoenix lingering here ignoring your death than absorbing it into you. You aren’t Jean._

“I know. But it was in her when I was a kid. It was there when she was training me. I know what it feels like, and it knows what my mind sounds like.” Or, at least, you hoped so. Although you could still remember that feverish touch, the way Jean’s mind brushing against yours always seemed to burn, there was no guarantee that your desperate mind would scream loud enough for even a small spark to find you. Hell, you didn’t even know for sure that some small piece of it didn’t still remain near or within the manor. It was all a huge gamble, a risk with your very life on the line. “And if I die, well… at least there’s one less Haller around to fuck up this world.”

Opening your eyes, you looked up at the Shadow, blazing blue eyes staring right back at you. But you just smiled, vision fading from your right eye, your fingers clutching the razor tighter. Blood vessels were bursting in your eye, you knew. You could feel them, feel more blood trickle down the back of your throat. Looking the last piece of David Haller in the eye, you dragged the blade down the inside of your right wrist. The scream he let out echoed in every space of your mind, your psyche, the fiber of your being, primal and filled with a terror that reflected your own. Hot blood spilling over your skin, the second cut to your other wrist wasn’t as deep, was shakier. But it was enough. You let the razor clatter to the floor, head tilting back so you could stare up at the ceiling.

The shadowy tendrils of your father tried to bleed into you, tried to take control. But you held him back with what little spark of power remained inside of you, eyes slipping closed. The cold came slowly but surely, starting in your fingertips and toes, slowly moving up your limbs. It was oddly… peaceful. Maybe you really had just been waiting for over a year to finally have an excuse to let what remained of you die. Or maybe you were just delirious from blood loss, pain, and exhaustion. It was hard to tell. But the echoing, shattering scream of your father slowly faded. Became distant as you drifted, your mind stretching out, reaching for the stars that had whispered to you your whole life.

_Hello,_ they’d whispered, _hello. Hello._

“Hello,” you whispered back.

The world faded as you heard something slam against the bathroom door. _Not yet,_ you thought, pushing out of your body, slipping from the confines of your flesh and stretching up. Up, towards the night sky, towards the burning stars that still whispered to you. In a language you couldn’t quite decipher now, blinding in their light. The Shadow clung to you, fused to your very being, silent as the darkness you’d fallen into was burned away by light. White, hot and bright as the sun itself, all encompassing. You stumbled into something like consciousness, far from your body, blinking as you found yourself in a white room, warm as a summer morning. It stretched endlessly, outside the bounds of reality. Infinite white, infinite light.

When you raised your incorporeal hand, there was dark connective tissue running from you to the shadow that lurked behind you. It only shared the shape of your father, no facial features visible other than those two glowing blue eyes. Its movements mimicked your own, lowering its hand when you did, turning your head when you turned yours. Long strings of that same connective tissue ran from you to the shadow, tangled up on themselves, tying you to it and it to you.

“Where am I?” you spoke into the space.

Not expecting an answer, of course. Musing to yourself more than anything, movements heavy as the Shadow echoed them. You took a step forward, eyes searching for something in the blank space. Anything. It felt less like walking and more like drifting, a forward movement in a space that made it feel like you’d made no progress at all. There was a soft tug from the direction of your physical body, a pull trying to get you to return to it. But you resisted it. Let yourself float further away, deeper into this space.

“Am I dead?” you asked the space.

“No,” a voice answered. Disembodied, echoing all around. When you glanced around, turned to look behind you, all you could find was more empty space. “Not yet.”

“But I’m close,” you said.

“Yes.” The voice was close, whispering directly into your ear.

“Is this all in my head?” you asked. “My last dying delusion?”

“No. It’s real, in a way. A place between death and life. The entryway to the afterlife.”

The shadow pressed closer to you, its cold presence almost washing out the warmth of this place you were in. There was another tug, this one stronger than the one you’d felt previously. Reality fractured for a moment. One part of you was still in this strange liminal space, the astral piece of you, what remained of your father dragged there with you. The other part of you was being carried down a dimly lit hall, voices around you muffled and indistinct but the panic in them clear. Someone had found you, found your body. The fracture sealed just as quickly as it had appeared, the white bleeding back in.

“How much longer do I have?” you asked.

When you turned your head, a figure made of light stood before you. Tall, featureless. Their very presence burned, only vaguely humanoid in shape, so bright you couldn’t look directly at them. Wincing, you stared at the space next to them, the Shadow pressing cold against your back, fingers curling around your own.

“Time doesn’t matter here. For however long you can hold on, you will remain here,” the burning figure said.

“What is here?” You glanced around, shivering as the cold overtook the warmth. “This place… what is it?”

“We call it the White-Hot Room.” The burning figure stepped closer and laid a hand on the shadow that had wrapped around your arm, chasing away the darkness, replacing the cold with a burning heat. “It is the place where some scattered pieces of us reside.”

When you glanced down, there was a white-hot imprint of a hand on your astral arm, a glow spreading from it. You watched a few of the tendrils that connected you to the Shadow sizzled and burned away, nothing left of them but ash. Hope welled in your chest, hot and overwhelming, your eyes locking on the figure before you.

“You’re the Phoenix,” you whispered.

“Only a piece. A lingering spark.” Although you weren’t sure how you knew, the small piece of the Phoenix that stood before you seemed pleased. “We are many. Very few ever become a whole. We have always been but a fragment, a tiny spark compared to a great flame.” Then, after a moment, “You finally heard us.”

“I always thought it was the stars that were whispering to me when I was a kid. Since I shared a name with some of them. Childish shit.” You flexed your astral fingers, felt warmth return to them. “Then I thought it was just part of the delusions I was having when I was a teenager. Made up shit floated by my sick, damaged brain.”

“Well, you weren’t really listening. You wouldn’t let us in. For all of the potential you have, for all the power held dormant inside of you, you were a locked door. One that let no one and nothing in, except for the parasite forced in when you were too young to realize what was happening.” The being held out its hand to you once more. “You are dying. You did so to call us to you. What is it that you wish for?”

“I…” You hesitated. What was it that you really wanted? It wasn’t death, surely. Now that you stood on the precipice, you didn’t want to take that step over the edge. Choosing to die had been so easy when you were in pain, when you weren’t on the cusp of actual death. Dying as a concept was one thing. But facing it down now, standing in this strange space with a tiny spark of something that could help you fight back, you didn’t want to die. Not when you’d come so close to something resembling life for the first time in years. Slowly, you fought against the cold pull of the shadow and placed your hand in theirs, their touch so hot it bordered on painful. But you did not let go, only held on tighter. “I want to live.”

“And?” the Phoenix pressed, a molten heat spreading up your arm from where they touched you. The Shadow recoiled, tried to pull away, the bonds tying it to you burning away. “What else?”

“I want the power needed to make my mind my own again.” Even as the heat became overwhelming, burned through your chest, through your limbs, you did not let go. “I want to be the host to your spark.”

“You would give up one being threatening to take control only to replace it with another?” they asked, amused.

“No.” You tightened your grip on their hand, drew the fire into yourself. Accepted it, claimed it as your own. “You would be me. I would be you. One piece separate from the whole for however long I live. Once I die, you’re free to do as you like. Join the rest of yourself, fuck off to another plane of existence, whatever. But there was a reason you whispered to me for all my life. And it wasn’t just to take me over.”

“You are correct,” they admitted. Your astral form now glowed, not as bright as the Phoenix, but enough to keep the Shadow cringing away. “You aren’t a Grey. But you are a Xavier. You have a spark that could become an all-consuming flame if nurtured properly. And we have been lost for so long. Fractured into so many pieces it would take millennia to put us back together again.”

“You’re bored.” You held out your other hand to the Phoenix, this tiny spark that still felt larger than life itself as it flowed into you. How Jean had held a complete piece of it, you would never know. But you had to try to contain this one fragment, to absorb it into yourself. “I’m friends with interesting people. I can keep you entertained, at least for a while. Until you have to go back to this place again and do…whatever it is that you do.”

The phoenix seemed amused once more, taking your other hand, the fire burning through your whole self now. The weight of the Shadow was gone, severed, your astral form burning like the stars you’d watched as a child. They sank into you, filled a void inside of you that you hadn’t even realized was there.

“You are fascinating, Andromeda Ester Haller. A child created in the destruction of a thousand realities, a vessel to be filled.” The Phoenix’s voice echoed from inside of you, your hands pressing over your chest and eyes fluttering closed. “We will give you what you seek. But your battle is far from over.”

The room began to fade away, the pull from your physical body too strong to resist any longer. But the warmth remained, a tiny flame in the center of your very being. Even when the cold weight of reality came crashing in, your fingers numb, a chill lingering in your bones. Your limbs were heavy, a dull pain throbbing in your temples, and it was with great effort that you opened your eyes. Staring up at the white ceiling above you, you let the sounds of the room bleed in next. The gentle beeping rhythm of a heart monitor, the gentle rumble of the heater, the creaking of a chair as someone adjusted their weight in it. You blinked again, spots in your vision beginning to clear as you turned your head. A head of dark, messy hair rested against your hip, cold metal fingers curled around your own.

_Bucky,_ you thought. There was a sinking feeling in your chest as you watched him, his back bent at an awkward angle to rest his head against you, the chair he sat in pulled close to the bed. You started to lift your other hand, move it to rest on his head. But it was heavily bandaged, even the tiniest twitch of your fingers sending a bolt of pain through your wrist and arm. Your still-broken wrist, you realized. Jaw clenched, you fought through the pain, let your hand rest against his head, fingers threading in his hair. There was a soft cough, bringing your attention from Bucky to the other side of the room.

“Uncle Kurt,” you whispered, tears pricking your eyes when you saw him.

It was him who had teleported into the bathroom and found you. Distantly, you knew it. Had been just present enough in your body to recognize it, know that it was him who had cradled your dying body and transported you to the infirmary, put out the telepathic call for help. His smile was not unkind as you tried to focus on him. But your vision was still blurry, your right eye aching.

“Welcome back, Andromeda,” he said, voice low. He moved to sit on the other side of your bed, quiet so that neither of you woke Bucky.

“How long…?” you trailed off, not wanting to continue.

“Almost 24 hours. You were touch and go for a long while. Emma was monitoring you, trying to find wherever it was that your mind went to.” Kurt reached out, brushing your hair back from your face, and you felt six all over again, scared and uncertain and seeking comfort from your favorite uncle. “Barnes hasn’t left your side since Hank let him in after you’d been stabilized.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, stroking Bucky’s hair as best you could. He remained asleep, breathing deep and even as you looked back up at Kurt. “I’m sorry, Uncle Kurt.”

“You are forgiven.” His smile was bitter, hand still resting on your forehead. “At least by me. The others I can’t speak for. But…” He trailed off, letting out a low sigh. “It’s okay to ask for help. You don’t have to do this all on your own. We… we would have helped you before you got to this point.”

“I didn’t…” You stopped yourself. You didn’t want to die? That was a lie. You had wanted to die, or at least some piece of you had. Right up until the moment when death was about to pull you into its embrace, you’d wanted to die. Hell, you’d felt _relieved_ when you’d been bleeding out. “I don’t want to die,” you corrected. “Not anymore.”

“Barnes told us about what you were planning to do.” He frowned, resting the back of his hand against your forehead. “Scott was particularly furious. You’ve been burning up. I take it you succeeded?”

Well, shit. Bucky hadn’t realized the weight that the word ‘phoenix’ carried in the manor, around your estranged family. Of course Scott was pissed. He’d nearly lost his wife to the whole of the force. More than once, too. Closing your eyes, you let out a heavy sigh. Maybe dying would have been better. But you couldn’t bring yourself to regret the decision you’d made. Not even with the dull pain in your head, the bandages wrapped tight around both of your wrists, your vision blurry, permanently damaged. Because you could feel the steady warmth of the Phoenix inside of you, could stretch out and gently brush against the minds of every person in the manor without straining yourself. You knew who was awake, who was asleep, what they were dreaming of. An overwhelming rush that you had to pull away from, centering yourself once more, until it was just you, the concern radiating off of Kurt, and Bucky’s quiet mind.

“Yeah,” you murmured, opening your eyes to look back up at him. “I think I did.”

“Is David…?” Kurt trailed off, looking hesitant.

“No.” You knew it. You could feel it, a quiet absence in your mind. “He’s not in my head. But he’s not gone, either.”

“You can leave it.” When you moved your hand from Bucky’s hair, he took it, fingers curling around your own. His eyes were sad, thoughts a tangled mess of wondering where things had gone wrong, how he had failed, how he could help. “You don’t have to fight this fight. He’s out of your head. Let us take care of it.”

“I started it,” you told him softly. “It’s only right that I finish it. Send him off some place better. Where he can be at peace.”

“Andromeda…” Kurt bent, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the back of your hand.

You almost caved. Just at the sight of your uncle Kurt, the man who had brought joy to an otherwise dark childhood, bending under the weight of his sorrow, you almost gave in. Almost agreed to let them finish the fight for you, if only to ease his pain. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You finished your fights, didn’t hand them off for other people to deal with. Curling your fingers around his as much as you could without it hurting, you waited until he opened his eyes and looked at you before you spoke.

“He’s my father. It wouldn’t be right if I left him like this. Floating around in the astral plane, lost.” You tried to smile but knew that it came across as a scowl, words bitter on your tongue. “I can’t keep making you clean up my messes for me. I’ll be careful this time. I promise.”

“Just don’t put yourself in danger again. That’s all I ask.” Kurt leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple that made your breath catch in your chest, hot tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. When he pulled back, his smile was tender. “I’ll leave you to get some more rest. You’ll need it when Scott and Emma come back to talk to you.”

The startled little laugh you let out was wet, a few tears managing to escape and roll hot down your face. Kurt placed your hand down by Bucky’s head with a knowing smile, brushing back your hair one last time. When he disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke, you let out a long sigh, head turning to look at a dark corner of the room.

“I can see you, you know,” you told your father, his astral form flickering.

“You almost died,” he said in response. He floated in his little corner of the room, legs folded and sunglasses obscuring his eyes. But he was no longer the misshapen Shadow that had haunted you. Instead, he seemed to be composed of many different colors, wild hair twisting in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of tentacles. “Was it worth it?”

“To get you out of my head and have my mind be my own for the first time in two decades?” You snorted, rolling your eyes. “I bonded with a piece of the Phoenix. I feel… whole, in a way I haven’t in years. My head is killing me and I’m not gonna be able to type for a while without it hurting. But yeah. I think it was worth it.”

David Haller was quiet, the two of you sizing each other up. He eventually sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You got this pain in the ass attitude from me,” he grumbled. Dropping his hand, he regarded you once more. “Why didn’t you just burn me out of existence when you merged with it? Take care of your old man for good and get it over with?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Why didn’t you fight back and make it more difficult on us?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “But being forced out of your head, existing on a purely astral level… It’s brought a strange bit of clarity. Like a fog’s been lifted.”

Well. _That_ was interesting. He did seem more lucid than you’d even seen him before. And he didn’t seem to be trying to force his way back into your head, ripping your mind to shreds or attempting to possess you. Perhaps you had fucked him up just as much as his presence had fucked you up. Mutually assured destruction averted, at least for the moment.

“… I don’t want to have to fight you, y’know,” you mumbled. “You were a shit dad, but you’re still my father. Patricide isn’t high on my list of things to dabble in during my lifetime.”

“But we both know that I can’t remain like this.” His own voice was low, hands folded in his lap. “Stranded on the astral plane, not really dead but not alive, either.”

“I’ll think of a solution later.” You closed your eyes, fighting off a wave of bone deep exhaustion and dull pain. “Just… let me have a day to myself. Okay?”

“One day,” he agreed, much to your surprise. “But then we have to figure this out. Together.”

When you opened your eyes, he was gone. Your head was quiet, your chest warm, and the silence was unnerving. Carefully, you reached out to stroke Bucky’s hair again, felt him shift under your touch this time. When he turned his head, prosthetic fingers curling tight around your own and dark rings under his eyes, your chest tightened. His bleary eyes cleared when he took you in, both hands clutching your own as he sat up straight.

“Andy?” he asked, voice rasping, still low and gravelly from sleep.

“You’re gonna fuck up your back if you sleep like that for too long, old man,” you told him, giving him a watery smile as he scooted his chair closer.

“Ms. Frost said… She thought that you’d be asleep for much longer, that you’d have to undergo some kinda psychic surgery.” Bucky stared at you in awe for a moment before it slipped into a darker expression, your heart stuttering. “You _promised_ me.”

“Bucky,” you said, “I—”

“You _promised._ You said we’d do it right. That you’d let me be there, that you wouldn’t do anything stupid.” He cut you off, a cold anger to his words. “Do you have any idea how close you were to dying? Dr. McCoy said if Kurt had found you just a minute or two later…” He trailed off, closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw as he dipped his head and tightened his grip on your hands. “He started taking over. I had to act fast and I… I didn’t want you to see…”

“You still broke your promise,” Bucky pointed out, eyes still closed, brow furrowed. “You lied to me. You almost fucking _died._ Saying I’m pissed off would be putting it real goddamn lightly. So… at least tell me that you succeeded in finding the thing you wanted to find.”

Taking a deep breath, you reminded yourself that he had every right to be pissed at you. Frankly, you wouldn’t blame him if he told you to go fuck yourself and stormed right out of your life. But he’d stayed. He’d slept in a chair at your bedside and held your hand while you absorbed a fragment of a cosmic force into yourself. Bucky Barnes had stayed when he’d had every right to leave, and thanking him for it every day for the rest of your life wouldn’t even come close to making up for it. Pulling your hands from his, you waited until he opened his eyes and turned to look at you before you held your less fucked up hand out, the spark in your chest flaring. A blazing hot blue flame jumped to life in your palm, making both of you jump. But you managed to get it under control, making it a little sphere of flame floating gently in your palm, the light reflected in his wide eyes.

“I managed to absorb a tiny spark of a great cosmic psionic force and keep it from overtaking or possessing me and let it simply become another piece of who I am,” you said, fingers curling around the fire and snuffing it out. “And my dead dad’s stuck somewhere between the physical and astral plane instead of in my head. So, yeah. I’d call it a success.”

“Well.” He sighed, rubbing at his jaw and giving you a bitter smile. “I’m a semi-stable hundred-year-old man with a robot arm. You’re a real-life Scanner with a cosmic phoenix thing living inside of you. Pretty interesting pair we make.”

“At least we’re fun at parties,” you said, a poor attempt at a joke that still managed to get a laugh from him.

There was a moment of silence, his arms braced on the side of the bed, your hands falling to rest on top of the blankets, white bandages seeming somehow tighter than they had been before. Bucky was the first to speak, voice low and eyes dark.

“What do we do now?” he asked, fingers curling into tight fists. “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know,” you sighed, reaching up to rub at your sore eye. “I’ve gotta do something about what’s left of my father. But after that… After that, we go home. We take a break from all of this shit. And then we do something about those remaining Soldiers.”

“It never ends,” he murmurs, “does it?”

**THIS IS FOREVER.** Your mother’s last message, written in blood. It could mean anything. It could mean nothing at all. But you hoped, in that moment, that she hadn’t meant it for you.

“No,” you whispered back. You looked up at him, smile fragile. “It just changes. But I’ll be by your side to help you get through it until you get sick of me.”

“Sick of you?” Bucky’s smile was a bit warmer as he tentatively reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Never.”

“Well then.” You managed to bring your hand up fast enough to catch his, lacing your fingers together. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other for the near future.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

When he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, you let your doubts fall away. Just for a moment. Later, you could worry about what to do with what remained of your father, how you were going to explain what you’d done to Scott, pray that your unexplained absence from work hadn’t gotten you fired. But right then, in that moment, you let yourself be happy. Truly happy, for the first time in a long, long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. hi. hello. it's good to see you all down here. i hope you're all doing ok. this chapter was... difficult to write, to say the least. i know this isn't how the phoenix force is in ~canon~ but. canon is my sandbox and i do as i please, so. 
> 
> also, how about that falcon and the winter soldier trailer??? marvel pls don't let me down this time, i'm begging. 
> 
> love y'all. stay safe. be good to yourselves. i'll see you in the next chapter for the next arc of this meandering story.


	14. Acceptance Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter wanings: discussion of mental illness, brief mention of past domestic abuse, mention of past suicide attempt
> 
> _Now I can be anything I wanna be  
>  What doesn't kill me can only make me bleed  
> Breathing in the mirror  
> I realized something when I saw my hazy face_

It was strange, you thought. Strange how naturally your powers had come back to you, as if they’d never been gone in the first place, never been hidden behind psychic scarring and traumatic blocks. You floated in your astral form in the graveyard on manor grounds, having slipped out of your body as easily as shedding a coat. Glancing down at yourself, you watched the swirling pattern of blues and violets that made up what had once been incomplete, little sparks of light floating inside of you, a reminder of what you had become.

“Someone is going to notice you left your body.”

Your father floated next to you, a swirling rainbow of colors, hair still shaped like curling tentacles, his expression pensive. Heaving a sigh, you turned back to the grave in front of you.

“Eventually. But I needed some time to myself.” You paused, took a moment to think over your next words carefully. “I wanted to come see her. Alone.”

Ruth Aldine. Mother, sister, friend. Barely an adult when she’d died, freshly out of her teens. Not for the first time, it struck you that you’d outlived both of your parents, had a chance to grow and change and mature in ways they never had. And you had come terribly close to becoming yet another tragic young death in your family’s legacy, had almost followed in their footsteps right into a grave of your own.

“She loved you.” David Haller’s voice was quiet, his expression hard to read. “So much. From the moment she first held you in her arms. Said that you were perfect in every way.”

“What changed?” you asked.

“I don’t know.” He sighed, reaching out one spectral hand to press over her name. “I asked myself that every day for years. What had gone wrong, if there was anything I could have done to help. If one of us had done this to her.”

“You said that you’d had to go through dozens of different timelines just to find the one where you could be together.” You watched him, watched the way the colors in him swirled and changed, your mother’s name visible through his hand. “Maybe there was always a time limit to it. Maybe for me to exist, one of you had to go. And she got the shit end of the deal.”

“I think,” he said, “it would have been better for everyone if I was the one who died first.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I never got to know her. Maybe all of this would have gone to shit anyways. We’ll never know. If there is some alternate universe out there where she lived, where she raised me, it’s out of our reach.”

“There’s infinite realities out there. Ones where Ruth and I never met. Ones where I wiped out the mutant race, destroyed the world. Ones where she lives a happy life, has a real family, one that loves her. Ones where we all exist together, where we don’t fuck up and perpetuate what my father started.” David Haller sighed and turned back to look at you. “She gave you my name because she thought making you an Aldine would be a curse. I think making you a Haller was the real curse.”

“Why did you do it?” you asked. An abrupt shift in the conversation, but a question you’d needed to ask. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Ah, there it is. I was wondering when you’d get around to asking.” He sighed, pulling his hands over his face. “Things get blurry. I wasn’t whole. But I knew I was going to die. And I didn’t want to leave you alone like I’d been left alone. It was to keep you safe. To look after you. But—”

“Yeah, great fucking job you did there. Kept me so safe.” You let out a bitter laugh, felt a surge of warmth from the spark you’d absorbed. “If you knew you were going to die you could have just, you know, not gone. Stayed here and actually tried to be a bloody father for once.”

“I think we both know I never would’ve been a good dad.”

A moment of silence passed and you turned to look at the grave next to your mother’s. One you had never once visited before, even though you’d known where it was.

“David Haller,” you read. “Beloved son. Dead but not gone.” You snorted, astral body still floating feely. “Bit on the nose.”

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am sorry. For everything. For failing you from the very start.”

“I don’t forgive you.” Although the words were brutal, you delivered them as gently as you could. “But maybe, in the future, I could try.”

“I wasn’t really expecting forgiveness,” your father admitted with a humorless smile. “But I wanted to apologize, while I had the chance.”

You blinked, turned to face him. He sat with his legs folded, hands in his lap, looking at peace. Resigned to whatever he’d decided his fate would be.

“You said that I’d have to decide. That I would have to get rid of you,” you said. “But… you’ve made your own decision, haven’t you?”

“Figured you’ve already been through enough,” he said, tipping his head to the side and regarding you with a melancholy smile. “Like you said before. Patricide isn’t really something most people are eager to add to their to do lists.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.” He sighed, looking up at the sky. The dawn was colored a fading grey, clouds hanging heavy in the sky, snow ready to fall any moment. “I’ve kept your mother waiting long enough, I think.”

“You’re just gonna… pass on? That’s it? Simple as that?” you asked, brow furrowed.

“Anti-climactic, I know. No big fight on the astral plane, no final battle. But I think we’re both too tired for that. Too burnt out, our struggle already played out the last twenty some years.” He chuckled, gave a small shrug. “I’m barely even in this plane of existence, anyways. Best to just get it over with. But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. Not again.”

What were you supposed to say to that? ‘Thank you’? Because you didn’t feel grateful. You weren’t sure what exactly you felt, your emotions a confusing, jumbled mess as you simply listened to him. No words felt better than scrambling to find something that would fall flat, that wouldn’t communicate how you truly felt. He didn’t seem to mind, just kept staring up at the sky.

“A thousand dying branches of fate led to this moment. To you, surviving. Don’t waste it.” After another quiet moment, he reached out, took your hand in his. No longer the shadow, his touch wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm, either, it simply…was. Fading slowly. “I have one last thing to say, if you’ll listen.”

When you looked up, you could see yourself reflected in his eyes, a burning galaxy shaped like a girl, long hair trailing like fire behind you. David Haller gently squeezed your hands, looking at you, the real you, separate from your body but somehow still whole. Like all your life you had simply been waiting for that small spark, the Phoenix filling a void.

“Andromeda. I’m so proud of you, my little star.”

Your breath caught in your chest, eyes going wide. David Haller had been a terrible father, a shadow cast over your whole life, a dark legacy you’d tried to escape. But you could still distantly feel the tears that rolled down your cheeks in your physical body, the fire inside of you glowing brighter.

All your life you had been waiting for those words and you’d never even realized it.

“Dad,” you whispered, “I…”

But he was already gone. Faded, his presence slipping away. Moving on, like he should have so many years ago. Your fingers curled around nothing, the space where he had once been, head bowed and sorrow dowsing the fire in your heart.

Just like that, you’d lost your father all over again.

The last of the Xaviers, the last of the Hallers, the last of the Aldines. Generations of pain and tragedy that ended with you, alone and floating in the cold morning air as snow began to fall. With a deep breath, you returned to your body, leaving the graveyard empty once more. Opening your eyes, you let out the breath you’d held on a stuttering sob, pressing your aching, numb hands over your tear-stained face. Alone, a blizzard raging outside, you wept for the last time for your father and the family you’d never had.

\---

Shifting in the plush armchair you’d sat down in, you looked over the framed degrees hanging on the walls of the sunny room, the potted plants situated by the huge windows that took up most of the wall opposite you, in an effort to avoid looking at the man sitting in a chair just in front of you. A difficult task, given that he took up so much space and had been quietly analyzing you since you’d walked into his office. Dr. Leonard Samson had been recommended to you by Sam, a massive man with long hair and a sharp, knowing gaze. Supposedly, he’d done work within the superhero community before, had his own mutations that were caused by radiation exposure instead of an activation of his X-gene.

But, most importantly, he was immune to telepathy. The wall between your mind and his, the silence from his direction, was somehow both comforting and unsettling. You idly scratched at the brace on your wrist, let the thoughts of people milling about in the building echo quietly in your head.

“Ms. Haller?” Samson asked. He had such a deep voice, his tone patient.

“Huh?” you blinked, forcing yourself to look at him.

“I asked you a question.” He tapped his pen quietly against his notebook, the camera he used to record all of his sessions behind him, little red light blinking. “Would you like me to repeat it?”

“Oh.” You cleared your throat, adjusted your glasses and tried not to slump in the chair. “Please. I was… distracted.”

“I asked if there have been any major changes in your life recently,” Samson said, his patience with you almost grating. “Something that brought you to me, instead of going to the therapist you had previously.”

“My dad died a few weeks ago. For the second time.” You cleared your throat, reminding yourself once more that whatever you were hoping to find from this therapist would only come if you were honest with him. More honest than you’d been with therapists before, hiding what you were and what you could do. “I found out that my mom had killed herself pretty shortly after I was born. I had a couple of seizures, tried to kill myself. And, uh. Some traumatic blocks I’ve had for about a year went away and my powers just feel like a little bit too much.”

“I see.” The gentle scratch of pen on paper set you on edge, made you fidget in your chair as you fought not to glance at whatever he was writing down about you. “Your intake file said that you were diagnosed with depressive schizoaffective disorder when you were only 16. Did that run in your family?”

“My father had dissociative identity disorder and a schizoaffective disorder, yeah.” You tugged nervously at your hair, the tips re-dyed a deep blue and the rest back to its natural black. “I dunno about mom. She, uh… She doesn’t have any living relatives, and I don’t think she was ever formally diagnosed when she was alive. I’d guess at least depression though since she, uh. You know.”

“Right.” Samson glanced up, gave you a sympathetic look that made your jaw clench. “You mentioned traumatic blocks. What caused those?”

“I was…” You cleared your throat again, fingers curling as you struggled to get the words out. “I was in an abusive relationship. He would convince me not to take my medication. I had an episode and destroyed the house I lived in. I think I ended up hurting myself with psionic backlash. My knee was crushed and I sustained second degree burns to my back. There’s been chronic pain since then.”

“But you went back on medication after this episode? Received physical therapy for your knee?”

“Mm.” You nodded, shifting again, unable to look at him. “I was pretty stable. Hadn’t had even a mild episode in a while, but mostly I just felt… numb.”

“What triggered your recent suicide attempt?” he asked. “Was it flashbacks? Complications, maybe recent stressors?”

“My dad had implanted one of his personalities in my head and it was trying to take over.” You paused, looking up at him with a wry grin. “Which… sounds crazy, I know. He was a telepath, too. Had different… different powers from each of his alters.”

“I’ve heard crazier stories. I was in New York during the invasion, so not much surprises me anymore.” His smile was more genuine this time. “And you’re certain this wasn’t—”

“It wasn’t a delusion, no.” You shook your head, adjusting your glasses again. It was difficult getting used to them, your sight damaged after your psychic battle with your father. “One of my uncles is a doctor, he did some tests and confirmed for me.”

“And your powers coming back… how have you been dealing with that? Have you had any episodes that are particularly concerning?” he asked.

“It’s more just… getting used to it again. Like having the volume on a radio cranked way too loud and trying to get it back to a comfortable volume, you know? I haven’t set my house on fire or destroyed anything yet, so…” You shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“Any other changes? Issues?”

“I quit my job.” You had even gone to give your resignation to your boss in person, had been glad that he’d taken it well and had sent out recommendations to other employers. “After everything that’s happened, I just… I wanted a change. A new start. I’ve got some interviews, but… yeah. I dunno.”

What you didn’t tell him, what you weren’t ready to tell him yet, was that when you looked in the mirror you barely recognized yourself anymore. Your left eye was back to its natural brown color, but your right eye… your right eye was still mostly blue, only a small sliver of brown in the iris. When Hank had told you that you’d lost a significant amount of sight in that eye, you hadn’t been surprised. You’d felt it during the struggle, knew from the pain that had radiated from it that something had gone wrong. But it wasn’t just your eyes. Your face looked unfamiliar. The same, but totally different. Too much of your dead mother there, her own features where you’d seen only yourself before.

The shadows of your parents’ legacies, it seemed, still hung heavy over you.

“How have you been coping?” Samson asked, jerking you back out of your thoughts.

“Mostly just working on personal projects. Programs I’ve been wanting to iron the kinks out of for a while but didn’t have the time for, playing video games. Sleeping. I’ve been trying to learn how to cook. Friends come to check on me every day, just… just because we all agree I still need some monitoring.” You fiddled with the sleeves of your sweater, taking a deep breath. “Started going to a humanistic Jewish congregation here in DC for shabbat. I’m… looking for a new group for group therapy but haven’t found the right one yet. Getting a dog soon. And there’s this thing. This saying my father used to have that I’ve adopted that helps.”

“What is the saying?” he asked.

“I rule me,” you said softly.

“A good saying,” Samson capped his pen and stood. Startled, you glanced at the clock above his head and realized an hour had indeed passed. “Our session is over for the day,” he said, “but I’d like to see you again the same time next week. Does that sound like a plan?”

“Sure.” You shrugged, standing as well and slinging your bag over your shoulder. Frankly, after the medical history you’d given him and the things you’d talked about, you hadn’t really expected him to take you on as a client. A pleasant surprise. “Thanks, Dr. Samson.”

“Just one suggestion before you go. Something to work on for our next session.” Tucking the pen in the breast pocket of his coat, he smiled at you. “Try to tune in your telepathy, like a radio dial, to just one mind. One station, as it were. When you’re out and about, try to focus on just one train of thought and see if that helps some with the sensation of being overwhelmed. Let me know how it goes, and if you succeed, we can go from there.”

Although you briefly considered pointing out that you’d had training before, that you just needed to get back to practicing your old techniques, you decided against it. Help was help, and even if it seemed redundant, you needed all of the help you could get. After only a brief moment of hesitation, you let him take your hand in one of his enormous ones, giving it a hearty shake.

“I’ll see you next week, Ms. Haller.”

“Please.” You pulled your hand from his, tugging your sleeves back over your hands to hide the new, twisting scars on your wrists. “Just… call me Andy.”

Escaping before any further embarrassment could be heaped on you, you darted back out into the reception area, setting your next appointment with the receptionist before leaving the office. Out of habit, you reached into your bag for your keys, only remembering once you were halfway down the hall that you didn’t have them. In the wake of your seizures, the new medications you were taking, you couldn’t drive. At least not for a while, not until you’d been seizure-free for a while and didn’t have adverse side effects from the pills. Pushing your glasses up to rub at your eyes, you sighed when you felt a familiar mind brush up against your own.

“So,” Natasha said, leaning against a wall at the end of the hall ahead of you, spinning your keys on one finger, “how’d it go?”

“Pretty standard intake stuff. Didn’t run away screaming and asked me to come back next week, so.” You straightened your glasses and gave a small shrug. “Pretty good, I guess. Sam was right.”

“He does know what he’s talking about when it comes to this kind of stuff,” she conceded, pushing off the wall and shoving her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. “How’s the head?”

“Fine,” you told her, staying a half step behind her as you left the building and headed for the parking lot, boots crunching in the snow with each step you took. “Not feeling evil or wanting to start an apocalypse, for what it’s worth.”

“Just worried about you, that’s all.” For a spy, Nat was surprisingly honest with you, although that may have simply been because she knew that even her training only kept so much of her thoughts hidden from you now. “None of us really know what we’re dealing with here. We’re trying our best.”

“I know.” And you did. You knew all too well the strange world you’d dragged them all into, the uncertain ground they stood on when it came to you and the ways you’d changed, the thing that lived inside of you. “Sorry, I’m just—”

“Don’t apologize.” Nat’s pace faltered and she slung an arm around your shoulder, that sharp smile of hers a little less cutting. “Being bitchy is a better look on you.”

You barked out a short laugh, pleased when you felt her own amusement spike. Although you’d been uneasy around Natasha when you first met her, once you’d returned from New York the silence of her mind had been a welcome change from every other person around you and you’d quickly come to appreciate her presence. She was practical, had a dry sense of humor, and was unafraid to ask questions or demand answers from you. She also did not handle you with kid gloves, which you’d come to appreciate. Although there were certain things that you were delicate about, it was exhausting being treated like a minefield. Nat simply treated you like she would any of the others, navigating your pain to get to what she wanted from you with a grace that was almost terrifying. She was your friend, but you also knew that if you became a threat, she would not hesitate to put you down. Which, considering the fragile state of your stability, you appreciated.

“So, plans?” she asked, unlocking the car and watching as you slung your bag into the back seat.

“Movie night with Bucky and Alpine later tonight, so I didn’t schedule anything else.” You glanced at her as she started the car, knew that she would have a comment about _that_ decision. “Sam volunteered to take me to my interviews for the rest of the week.”

“You get in touch with the Stark people?” she asked, pulling out and doing a poor job of hiding the amused twitch at the corner of her lips. “They love hiring MIT alumni.”

“Ugh.” Wrinkling your nose, you rested your head against the window, watching the city rush past you. “I know that you and Stark get along but I’d rather not have one of my programs used for some top secret Avengers project or whatever. Plus, he’s a prick.”

“He is a prick,” she agreed, “but he’s a prick who pays well. Just keep it in mind, that’s all I’m saying. Their DC building is brand new and they’d kill to have someone like you on their team.”

Your dismissive grunt was, thankfully, all she needed to drop it. Driving in silence, you watched as you left the city, turned into the suburbs, the loud buzz of so many minds around you fading into a quiet white noise. Closing your eyes, you released the tension in your shoulders, the throbbing knot of pain in your temples fading with the noise of the city. It was only when Natasha turned into your neighborhood that she spoke again.

“You know, if you’re really getting bored, I could use your help on a job.”

Frowning, you lifted your head to look over at her. Sam, Steve, Bucky, and Nat never talked shop around you. Whatever it was they were doing when they went silent for days, they had never spoken to you about it. Bucky, in fact, had told you that he wanted to keep you out of it. Let you at least attempt to live something approaching a normal life, despite the cosmic force living inside of you and the fact that all of your friends did shadowy work while the government turned a blind eye. Whatever their set up was, however they operated, they’d never informed you. Although you were curious, you’d respected it.

“I thought you guys didn’t want to get me involved,” you said.

“No, _Barnes_ doesn’t want to get you involved,” she corrected, glancing at you with a sharp curve to her smile. “I think you can help. If you want, of course. Not gonna force you into it.”

“… What do you need help with?” you asked, curiosity getting the best of you.

There was a sharp spike of satisfaction from Natasha, her eyes glinting as she pulled into your driveway and parked the car next to her own sleek Porsche. She turned to you, killing the engine.

“I’m sure you know that we’re still looking for the three remaining Soldiers,” she said, voice low. “The boys aren’t good at keeping their thoughts to themselves. We’ve been able to confirm that one was KIA a few years back. An op in Ukraine, neutralized by some of our people. We didn’t know what he was back then, figure his cryostasis chamber must have malfunctioned and he woke up before the others. But the other two are active. We think we may know where they are, but—”

“But you can’t confirm.” You reached to retrieve your bag, setting it in your lap. “Why not?”

“We think they may have stopped in the Russian consulate in DC,” she said, her smile humorless when you looked up at her in surprise. “Yeah. Problem is that while I’m good at getting into most networks, the GRU has really stepped up their game since I defected. I haven’t been able to get in to see if we can confirm that they’ve visited and what they’re doing here.”

“So, you want me to infiltrate a foreign nation’s network and see if I can find a couple of ghosts.” You sighed, pushing your glasses up to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Just casually break a few dozen laws.”

“If you’re working with us, laws are more like polite suggestions that can be ignored sometimes,” she said with a dark chuckle.

You should have said no. But, once again, you found yourself intrigued and wanting to help. These men were a danger, to Bucky and the others and to anyone else in their sights. For all you knew, they’d figured out your connection to Bucky and would be after you, too. Maybe even your family, blissfully unaware up in New York and waiting for your next visit.

“Fine.” You got out of the car, caught your keys when Natasha tossed them to you. “It’ll be easier if I can find a way to manually access their data. They must have a physical location where they keep all their information stored.”

“We can get you in,” she said, leaning against her car. “Might require you doing a little… _pushing_ to keep attention off of you.”

“I can do that.” You shrugged. Although influencing thoughts, redirecting the minds of others was something that you weren’t a huge fan of, a tiny little suggestion in a few minds couldn’t hurt too much. “Just let me know when you’re ready for me to get in there.”

“I’ve got a friend in the CIA who might be able to help you get in there, too. We’ll get in touch.” Natasha studied you for a moment, sharp eyes meeting your own. “Maybe don’t tell Barnes about this during your date tonight.”

“It’s not a _date,_ ” you hissed at her, traitorous heat rising to your cheeks. “But I won’t. Rather not deal with him pouting all night.”

“Mhm.” With a sly grin, she reached out to ruffle your hair before opening the door to her car, pausing for a moment. “Tell him I said hi, will you?”

“Tell him yourself,” you snapped back, glaring as she laughed and slid into the driver’s seat.

Despite your annoyance, you gave her a wave before she sped off, waiting until her sleek car was out of sight before you heaved a sigh and trudged up to your porch, unlocking the door and stepping into your quiet house. Throwing your bag down, you flipped on lights, made your way into the kitchen. Rolling up your sleeves, you set your phone down on the counter and let your Deftones playlist play softly as you retrieved the meal kit you’d bought from the fridge. Cooking was something you were still working on, failing more than you succeeded but refusing to give up. Bucky was usually fine with just eating pizza you ordered when he came over for movie night, but you knew that he liked home cooked meals, wanted to at least try for him.

 _Because you’re getting tired of being just friends,_ a voice whispered in the back of your mind. Not that you could argue with it, really. But you shoved it back, tried to focus on the directions on the package for how to make the baked ziti. Maybe you did want to be more than friends. Maybe you thought about when he’d teased you about your ‘date’ that you’d yet to go on more frequently than you’d ever admit. You weren’t going to dwell on it too much, though. Bucky still had things he needed to figure out, needed to get his head right before he could worry about anything approaching romance, and you weren’t going to be bold enough to think that it would be with you. After all, you still had your own damage to deal with.

One day, maybe. Maybe you’d gather enough courage to admit how you felt. But, for the moment, you’d have to be satisfied with what you had.

\---

Sitting crosslegged on the couch, you focused on the waves of warm comfort coming from Bucky as you combed your fingers through his hair, his head resting against your shins. It had become something of a habit for him to sit on the floor, back propped against the couch and Alpine in his lap, head bumping against your legs as you watched movies. The baked ziti had turned out surprisingly good and Bucky had managed to devour three platefuls of it, leaving just enough for you. Dishes left in the sink, you’d put on Creepshow, working your way through having him watch all your favorite horror movies. Mugs of red wine sat on the floor next to him, mostly forgotten as you idly braided his hair while he watched the movie.

In the weeks since you’d returned from the school, you’d managed to get through most of your favorites, pleased that Bucky seemed to enjoy horror as much as you did. You hadn’t been sure at first, uncertain if his experiences as the Winter Soldier would turn him off displays of fictional violence. But he hadn’t been uncomfortable yet, had been honest with you about his opinions. Now you were letting him choose some of the movies, going through your sizable collection so that he could get a crash course on one small piece of pop culture. The cheesier the movie, the more he enjoyed it, and you’d made a point to pick up the Evil Dead movies, certain that he’d enjoy them once he got to them.

Picking up one of the mugs, he sipped at his wine, letting out a hum as you finished the braid and tied it off. Wordlessly, he handed you the other mug when you held out your hand, the brush of his fingers against yours sending a shiver down your spine that you managed to hide.

“You said there was a sequel to this one, right?” he asked, tipping his head back enough to look at you.

“Mm,” you hummed, sipping at your wine and turning your attention to the TV. “It wasn’t quite as good as this one, but we can watch it next, if you want.”

“Maybe.” Turning back to the movie, he shifted, resting his head more comfortably against your legs and finishing off his wine. “What was the one you said you wanted to watch next?”

“Nightbreed,” you told him, only half paying attention, distracted by a quiet shift in his thoughts. Bucky thought almost exclusively in Russian, much to your relief, keeping you from subconsciously invading his privacy. Although you’d been working on his psychic defenses, guarding his mind from powerful telepaths like yourself, he was still a work in progress. “But we can watch Creepshow 2 instead, if you want.”

“Nah.” He cleared his throat as the credits began to play, idly stroking Alpine’s fur as she dozed in his lap. “I, uh… I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

 _Shit._ You did your best to hide the spike of panic you felt, looking down at him and quirking an eyebrow. He shifted again, a spike in his nerves only serving to make you anxious as well.

“That’s ominous,” you said, managing to keep your voice even. “What’s up?”

“It’s not… It’s nothing bad,” he said, looking up at you. “Remember back at the school, when you got shitfaced on scotch?”

“I remember,” you replied drily, flicking his forehead. “You gonna call me a lightweight again? Not my fault I don’t have superhuman tolerance for alcohol.”

“Well, you _are_ a lightweight,” he chuckled, rubbing at his forehead. “But no. I, uh. I wanted to talk to you about that promise I made.”

“Promise?”

“Well, not promise, but… We talked about spending time together. Just… just you and me.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” you asked, amused. “You come over like three times a week and eat all my food and drink all my beer.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and scoffed, some of his nerves smoothing out. But he was still tense, prosthetic fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his knee.

“I don’t eat _all_ your food,” he said. “And yeah, we’re hanging out, but I… I said that I’d take you out and I just, uh.” He cleared his throat again, looked away from you. “You seem to be doing better. And I wanted to see if you still wanted to. Go out, that is. With me.”

Bucky Barnes was not asking you out on a date. You forced yourself to remember that fact even as your heart lodged in your throat, hands clutching your mug a little too tightly. You were just two friends who had made it through traumatic events, making good on a suggestion he’d made in an attempt to keep you from killing yourself.

“Are you seriously asking me if I still want to let you spend obscene amounts of money on fancy food?” you asked him, managing to put on a casual grin. “It’s like you don’t even know me, Bucky.”

Letting out a stuttering laugh, he looked at you again. There was a fondness in his eyes that had your heart skipping a beat all over again, something you didn’t want to read too much into. After all, you’d had your heart broken enough for several lifetimes, and you refused to ruin a friendship just because you were acting like some teenager with a foolish crush.

“Okay, point taken,” he said. He reached up, metal fingers closing around a lock of your hair and giving it a teasing little tug. “Next Friday. I’ll clear my schedule, you clear yours. We’ll hit the town and you can put me in debt.”

While you wanted to laugh and tease him back, tell him to get ready for how much of a dent you were going to put in his wallet, you couldn’t. Your brain had short circuited, hyper focusing on how you’d subconsciously leaned down just a bit closer to him, how his fingers had wound in your hair so easily. A flush spread across your skin, shame suddenly swelling at how easily flustered he’d made you. Jerkily pulling away, you made a stuttering excuse about getting more wine for both of you before snatching his mug and fleeing to the kitchen. Setting down the mugs a little too heavily, you leaned heavily against the counter, trying to catch your breath and calm your racing pulse. An errant thought had caught you off guard, sent you running to try and regain your composure, ignoring the confusion you were picking up from him.

Because, for just one moment, you could have _sworn_ that you’d heard Bucky thinking about kissing you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo this chapter was originally gonna be done a couple weeks ago. but the winter storm hit us here in texas and i didn't have internet for a week, i got sick the week after that, and work has been... A Lot. but it's here! i know it's kinda abrupt and more filler than anything else, but i wanted to transition to the next arc that i have in mind for this fic. 
> 
> love y'all. thank you for being so patient with me. in between these fic updates, you can find me on [tumblr](https://spidergwenn.tumblr.com/), or talk to me on discord (mynoghraa#8836). see you next chapter!


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